


The Best Medicine

by zurimadison



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Neville Longbottom, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Ron Weasley, Mystery, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Slow Burn, St Mungo's Hospital
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zurimadison/pseuds/zurimadison
Summary: "His eyes locked with familiar, intoxicatingly deep brown ones. He felt like he was trapped by Devil's Snare, helplessly watching in slow motion as one of the most intense and intelligent women he'd ever met strode directly towards him. She was even more beautiful than when they were in school. Her petite form was dressed sharply in an expensive suit, her wild hair forced into submission, and she exuded an aura of power. Her eyes, deep pools he felt he could swim in, maintained their relentless hold on him, seeming to stretch out time itself. Then suddenly, before he was ready, she was there, standing in front of him, a full foot shorter but feeling larger than life."AU where Ron and Neville studied mental health at a muggle university before becoming healers at St. Mungo's. They want funding to start up a new ward, but first they'll have to get through the new Director- a financial hotshot from the Ministry named Hermione Granger.
Relationships: Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 39
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! With a fun and very different idea! The first chapters start very general, but after Chapter 3, it will be much more of a slow burn Romione romance, in addition to some Neville & Hannah love.
> 
> To give a little background on the rules of this AU, it's important to know that Hermione was in Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, and as a result was not close friends with Harry and Ron. Their paths from there are hopefully discernable from the plot, but if you find yourself confused, just let me know. The wizarding world still had a war with Voldemort that culminated at the Battle of Hogwarts, and obviously Hermione wasn't involved in the same capacity. Yes, I realize that leave HUGE holes (like how the hell would Ron and Harry have hunted horcruxes without her), and to those I say leave the past in the past. This story isn't really about the details of the war so much as the aftermath of it, and it shouldn't affect the plot here. Except for yeah, they were totally effed without her. :)
> 
> I want to take a moment more of your time to add a small disclaimer. This AU dives into integrating "muggle mental health principles" with "magical healing practices." I am not a mental health expert, I am not a research expert, I am not a magical healing expert, I do not work in medicine in real life, I do not work in finance in real life. I am open to reviews that discuss the merit of the plot etc, but to be frank, I don't care about weird medical nuances that I may or may not have gotten perfectly, and those comments will just bum me out more than anything. My goal here is to touch on a topic lightly enough to get the point across, not to ACTUALLY be a doctor. I hope that makes sense! (For anyone who's curious now, I have an engineering degree and an MBA and I work as a project manager. I write these totally for fun!)
> 
> Last thing! Yes this dives into mental health, but this fic will not ever get dark, I promise. I do not think it requires any trigger warnings for people who may need them, but I will be extremely sensitive of that as I post each chapter (I've only written three so far). This one touches on PTSD & anxiety.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this read! Thanks for stopping by.

"Healer Weasley!"

The shout echoed down the busy St. Mungo's corridor, reaching Ron as he rounded a corner. He turned, searching for its source. Beth, a broadly built nurse from his ward, was struggling through the crowd, brandishing a file above her head. This immaculately white hallway, being off of the main floor of the hospital, was the most common route used by patients, healers, security, and visitors alike. The activity quickly dispersed beyond the check in point, where the corridor diverged in several directions and options for lifts and staircases.

Ron checked his watch impatiently, frowning as Beth approached him.

"There's no use in looking at me like that, Healer Weasley," she said curtly, pushing the blue file at him and tucking her short blonde locks behind her ear. Beth was a young nurse, but Ron had found her to be competent and pushy. He liked her.

He opened the file and scanned its contents quickly. "I have a patient waiting for me upstairs," he informed her mildly.

"I'm aware, Healer," she emphasized the word and tapped her pointer finger on the document he was inspecting. "But I've been trying to track you down to sign this for several hours, and it is now the only thing between me and the end of my shift." She handed Ron a quill, and he scrawled his name on the page quickly, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

"Please be sure the equipment used on this patient is checked back in before you leave," he cautioned, handing the document back to her. "Otherwise you'll get an owl from an unhappy Russell later."

She snatched the file from his hand and spun on her heel, waving her hand to acknowledge his statement but leaving without another word.

Chuckling, Ron continued on the path towards his waiting patient. He ducked through the hall then ascended four flights of stairs, cursing both the slowness of the lift and himself for feeling so winded at the top. Silently swearing to do more cardio, he navigated towards the nurse's station.

"Morning, Neville," he called as he approached, nodding at the man leaning against the counter. Neville had grown into a lanky height, dropping baby weight and gaining several inches all at once. Although his face was less round, his teeth were still slightly buck toothed. He seemed to sport a perpetual five o'clock shadow, which Ron was sure could be blamed on their long hours, but the biggest change of the past decade was in Neville's demeanor. He was calmer and more confident in what he considered his expertise, even if socially he still sometimes brought conversations to a screeching halt (especially with regards to his flirting capabilities).

Neville glanced over his shoulder. "Hey Ron."

"Good morning, Gerard. What do we have today?" Ron asked the sandy haired nurse manning the desk.

"Your first appointment is waiting for you in bed ten," Gerard supplied, handing him a file. "And yours is in bed fourteen, Healer Longbottom."

"Thanks Gerard," Neville said, accepting the file. "I hope you brought some in," he told Ron, turning to look at him more fully and gesturing to his takeaway coffee. "The machine on this floor is broken again."

Ron groaned. "I'm already running late." He opened the file and flipped through the pages. "Oh," he exclaimed, looking sadly at Neville. "It's a survivor."

"Better get going then," Neville returned his troubled expression.

Ron saluted then continued across the ward, lost in his thoughts, memories from almost ten years prior.

* * *

A year after the war ended, Ron and Neville found themselves nestled in a booth in the very back of the Leaky Cauldron. The pub was poorly lit and grimy, but their table was well hidden and Tom levitated their drinks to them so they wouldn't have to stand up to go to the bar. They weren't recognized nearly as often as they were when Harry was with them, but it was better safe than sorry.

Ron purchased the first three rounds, making sure Neville was several beers deep before nervously broaching the subject he'd been waiting to discuss. "Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?" He asked, tentatively.

"What suggestion?" Neville inquired, lounging back in his seat.

"The university," Ron supplied.

"The muggle school thing?" Neville snorted. "You can't be serious. That was a real idea?"

"Yeah," Ron said, picking at an imperfection in the grainy wooden table. "Why not?"

"We're both rubbish at school," Neville took a long pull from his pint glass. "Why would we go back for more?"

Ron scratched his scraggly chin, considering his answer. "We're lost," he said finally. "Directionless." He gestured at their surroundings. "I mean, look at us right now."

"We like Leaky," Neville said defensively, glancing around the bar.

"It's Tuesday," Ron chuckled. "Early afternoon, no less."

"We do this every Tuesday!"

"Healthy habits is what I'd call it," Ron grinned. They sat in companionable silence, Ron weighing his options. He knew he was pushing the issue, but he couldn't let it go yet. He cleared his throat. "Seriously though, Neville, you live with your gran."

"And?" Neville looked uncomfortable. "You're still living with your mum."

"Exactly," Ron exclaimed sourly, leaning his head back against the hard wood of the booth with a dull thud. "That's my point. Don't you want to do more? The war is over, but here we are... I dunno... stuck."

Neville, who seemed to be trying to stall the conversation, waved his hand towards the bar. Two more frothy pints floating towards their table. "Harry isn't stuck," he pointed out.

"I know," Ron admitted. "I know he isn't. His life has never been easy, but he's lucky now, in that he's found what makes him happy. He's found work that fulfills him. But we… we're different. And we're not unique. Half the people we know from school seem to be just as lost as us."

Neville studiously finished off the first mug before picking up the second and spinning it slowly in his hands. "It's just… the war," he finally said in a small voice. "Everything else feels…"

"Unimportant," Ron supplied quietly, "small."

Neville nodded, still slowly swirling his drink around and around. "How am I supposed to move on?"

Ron slammed his mug down, making Neville jump. "I'm sorry, but that's exactly why we have to do this," he answered passionately. "The Ministry has no support for people like us. I think we could help fix a problem that no one else seems to even notice."

* * *

Ron approached the closed hangings around bed ten, then took a deep breath and ducked through.

"Anthony, how are you doing mate?"

Anthony Goldstein, who was perched against the bed, jumped up to a standing position at the sound of Ron's voice. He was as blonde and burly as ever, still wrapped up in his heavy winter coat and fidgeting nervously. "Ron! I- I didn't know that you were a healer."

"Yeah," Ron affirmed. "Although I took a weird route to get here." He smiled and peered over the file at his patient, who looked increasingly more uncomfortable, then fished his wand out of his bright green robe's pocket. "Why don't we sit, instead of using this examination bed?" He suggested cheerily, conjuring two simple wooden chairs. Ron sat and gestured to the empty one.

Anthony edged over to the seat slowly and lowered himself down, eyeing Ron warily the whole time. Ron placed the file on the ground and leaned back, "so what brings you in today Anthony? You don't have any symptoms reported."

"Really? I told them… when I got here…" He looked around, shrugging. "I wasn't sure why they directed me to this ward. It's for spell damage right?"

"It is. I think I know why they sent you here," Ron answered. "Would it be ok if you told me what you told the front desk when you checked in?"

Anthony fidgeted with the zipper on his coat. "I just- I haven't been sleeping well. I wake up every night covered in sweat." He looked up miserably.

"Nightmares?" Ron coaxed.

"Yeah," he paused, his voice dropping lower. "Always about the war. Everything I saw- everything I did- at the… the battle."

"Anything else?" Ron asked gently.

"I feel," he held out his hands in front of him, and closed them into fists. "Tight. Agitated. But just sometimes." Anthony stared at his meaty fists, "it comes and goes. I dunno." He looked up at Ron. "I'm not even sure why I came here today. I know it's not spell damage. I know it's not. But I… I didn't know what else to do."

Ron met his gaze and leaned forward in his chair, putting his arms on his legs. "It's not spell damage, Anthony, but it is very real. It sounds like you have anxiety."

"What," Anthony frowned, "like a muggle?"

"Yup," Ron affirmed. "Exactly like a muggle." He stood up, sweeping the file off the floor and walking over to the healer station in the corner. He scribbled on a prescription pad, then ripped off a sheet and turned around to gaze at his patient. "I can give you a potion to help with sleep, and hopefully you'll see improvements in the tenseness as well."

"You can help me?" Anthony asked, looking disbelieving.

"Yes," Ron gave him a small smile. "I can help you. But," he tapped the paper on the table absently, and rubbed his bearded chin. "It's a bandaid."

"What do you mean?" Anthony asked.

"I mean," Ron leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "This potion won't solve your root problem. It will only cover up some of the symptoms of it. I do not recommend it as a long term course of action."

"How do I fix it then?" Anthony asked impatiently. "Is it a spell? What do I do?"

"No," Ron shook his head. "Not a spell. The wizarding world does not have solutions for mental health issues like that." He paused, examining Anthony. "Often, after experiencing traumatic events- and the Battle of Hogwarts definitely qualifies- we, as human beings, tend to misremember details and cast blame on ourselves." He scribbled on the prescription pad again, and ripped off another page. "The first is for the potion, and I hope it makes you feel better. I really do." Ron handed both pages to his patient. "The second one has a time and place for a support group that I run. It's for survivors of the war, and we meet every Tuesday. If you want to address the root of your problem instead of covering it with a bandaid, I think this would be a really good start."

Anthony clutched the pages tightly in his hand, nodding fervently. "Thank you, Ron."

* * *

"Lumos."

Neville held his wand up to Marissa's face, examining her eyes closely. "Just look straight ahead, please."

"Well," he heard the woman behind him trill, "is she ok?"

Neville sighed and leaned back, keeping his eyes on Marissa. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Sure," she said amiably. "I was playing griffons and dragons with my nephew, and we were having a grand time. Next thing I know, Kate is dragging me here for no good reason." She peered around Neville's shoulder to glare at the other woman.

"What my dear sister doesn't remember," Kate responded hotly, "is exactly the problem."

"I remember everything!" Marissa exclaimed.

"Ok, ok," Neville interjected, before turning to Kate, who was nervously wringing her hands, despite her hot temper. "Can you help me fill in the gaps?"

"It was my son, Richard," she answered, eyes watering with unshed tears. "He's only four, and I think he might have picked up her wand by accident, because I heard this loud snapping noise, and when I ran into the living room, Marissa was laying on the floor, and I when I finally woke her up, she didn't remember any of it, and he's a really good boy I swear, he's just so small and he can't control his magic-"

"I know," Neville soothed, conjuring a handkerchief and handing it to her. "I nearly bounced down the road the first time I did magic. I'm not blaming your son, and he's definitely not in trouble." Kate dabbed at her eyes weakly.

"Marissa, do you remember any of that?" He turned back to his patient.

"No," she said happily. "I'm not convinced that she's not just pulling my leg."

Kate burst out angrily, "why would I-"

"Please," Neville said, gritting his teeth. "Stay focused." Kate looked abashed.

"Marissa," he said again. "What happens when you try to remember? What do you feel? I know," he held up a hand, cutting her off. "It didn't happen. Just humor me here, what happens when you try?"

Marissa looked amused, but closed her eyes and sat thoughtfully nonetheless. Her expression slowly lost its buoyancy as concentration and concern laced her features. "I feel… like there's something nagging at me. Something I've forgotten to do." Her eyes snapped open. "What's wrong with me?"

"I think that whatever accidental magic your nephew performed did affect your memory. Your eyes are slightly glazed and you're exhibiting small amounts of euphoria," Neville explained as Kate reached over to hold her sister's hand. "It's a very good thing you came in, since this instance is not as simple as an intentional Obliviate."

"Can you fix her?" Kate asked anxiously.

"Yes," Neville smiled. "Memories are tricky things, and minds are even more complex. However, in this case," he flipped through the file in his hands. "You have no prior conditions, and the nurse who examined you does not think you've lost more than a few hours of disjointed time, and all very recent memories. Mostly likely, only parts of today." Neville flipped the chart closed and stood up. "I can do it now if you like. Or we don't have to do it at all. You may not ever remember what you forgot, but unless you've done something very important today, it likely doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things."

Marissa looked at her sister, then licked her lips and spoke slowly. "I'd like my memories back, if that's ok. I know I spent a lot of time with my family today, and I don't want to miss out on that."

"Very well," Neville nodded. "I'll just have you lay on the bed please." Marissa swung her feet up and leaned back. Neville stood on the other side from Kate, and continued his instructions. "This won't hurt, although you may have a headache afterwards for a couple hours. It'll only take a minute to perform, but it is an immensely complicated spell, even for simple memories. Please try not to distract me, and never attempt this kind of thing yourself." The women, both with wide eyes at his serious tone, nodded mutely at him.

Neville took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He steadied his mind, taking another deep breath. Opening his eyes, he moved his wand slowly in a figure eight over Marissa's prone form, muttering multiple incantations as quietly as he could. He waited a long moment, then touched her arm gently. "Did it work?"

She blinked her eyes a couple times, then broke into a grin. "Yeah! Richard and I broke Kate's vase in the bedroom, but I mended it before she noticed."

"You did what?" Kate's previous concern melted quickly away, and Neville had to turn to hide his smile. He crossed to the desk, leaving the sisters bickering behind him, and signed the release forms.

"Take this to the front desk to check out," he told Marissa, pushing the paper into her hand. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you Healer Longbottom," she called after him. He waved and slipped out from behind the privacy curtains, his thoughts lost in an old memory of being with Ron at the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

Ron slammed his mug down, making Neville jump. "I'm sorry, but that's exactly why we have to do this," he answered passionately. "The Ministry has no support for people like us. I think we could help fix a problem that no one else seems to even notice."

"Dunno what you mean, people like us," Neville countered, but he gazed into space thoughtfully.

"We saved the world," Ron shrugged. "So what? The world is packed full of people with scars that can't be seen, both of us included, and I think we could help them."

"By going to muggle school?" Neville asked doubtfully.

"Muggles do a lot of wonky stuff, mate," Ron allowed. "But you have to admit, they are way better at this kind of thing. They have healers, or doctums, whatever you call them, just for brains."

"We can't be doctums," Neville said nervously. "They go to school for years and years."

"I agree," Ron said, drinking another swig. "But I think we can get certificates or something. I think we can learn a little that muggles know about brains and apply magic to it."

Neville seemed to steel himself before he asked, through gritted teeth, "could we learn about… about severe mental degradation?"

Ron examined him closely before answering sadly, "you know Neville, I reckon we could."

Neville nodded tersely, and they sat in silence for a long time, each lost in his own thoughts. "We'd have to get healer training too," Neville finally said. "And think of all the magical herbs with unknown potential."

"That's the spirit," Ron beamed, clapping him on the shoulder. "We can live with Harry at Grimmauld Place, I already asked him, and go to this university I found in London. We'll have to fib a bit on our applications," he lowered his voice. "Since we went to Hogwarts and not a muggle secondary school, but I say we try."

There was a long, pregnant pause. "It's absolutely barmy," Neville said finally, his voice shaking slightly. "Let's do it."

* * *

Neville approached the nursing station on the fourth floor, knocking on the counter to get Gerard's attention. "I'm taking my lunch."

"So late?" Gerard asked, pushing back the sleeve of his maroon robes and checking his watch. "It's nearly quitting time."

"It's the only break I've had today," Neville said wearily.

Gerars nodded sympathetically. "Your next patient is in thirty minutes."

"Noted," Neville said. "Call if you need me."

He swung by his office, also situated on the fourth floor, and grabbed the modest sandwich and apple that served as his meal before immediately exiting the office again. He navigated to the ward for long term patients in the back, smiling as he approached a corner with two beds pushed close together.

"Hey mum," he said, settling himself into the visitor armchair and viewing Alice Longbottom. Her short cropped hair was neatly combed, and she smiled at him faintly, her kind eyes overflowing with warmth. Neville turned to examine his father, who he'd inherited his round face from, and was pleased to see that Frank was of a similar disposition.

"What's for lunch today, Dad?" Neville asked amiably, opening his brown sack. To answer, his father picked up an empty salad container on the bedside table, smiling proudly.

"Healthy!" Neville praised, looking impressed. "What's gotten into you? You used to be all Cauldron Cakes for meals."

Alice made a noise of disapproval and Neville swiveled to look at her, amused. "Did you have a say in that mum?" She showed him her salad container as well, beaming.

He chatted mindlessly with his family while he ate, just happy to be in their company. When he was finished, Neville stood and extracted a small tube of lotion from his pocket. "Here mum," he said kindly, holding out his hand. She eagerly put her tiny hand in his, and Neville opened the tube to rub some lotion on her arms. "It's a new kind," he explained. "Infused with gingko biloba and rosemary this time." He moved over to his father and repeated the process. "Ron helped me with a kind of therapeutic spell we've been working on." He recapped the tube and slipped it back into his pocket. His parents beamed at him.

Since he'd begun working with them, Neville thought they'd shown significant improvement. He was cautiously optimistic about their eventual recovery, which was more than he could say when he was visiting them ten years ago. They were still largely mute, and seemed dazed more often than not, but he could keep their attention and seemed to elicit relevant responses from them when he talked.

"I have to go back to my shift now," he informed them, giving them both hugs. His mum grunted something that almost sounded like a "goodbye," and he gripped her hand tightly before leaving to go back to work.

* * *

A few hours later, Neville stood in the doorframe of Ron's office, checking the watch on his wrist and looking tired. "Are you ready? Hugh is waiting for us."

Ron stood from behind his desk, weary himself. "Long day?"

"Four memory reversals." Neville affirmed. "They are short procedures, but require such specific concentration. It's draining."

"Yeah," Ron grabbed his green healer robe from where it hung in the corner and swung it over his shoulders. "You always were better at those than me."

"There's more at stake for me isn't there?" Neville waved his hand, dismissing the praise. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"Do you reckon we'll get approval?" Ron speculated as he fell into step with his colleague. "It's the fifth time we've submitted our application."

"I dunno," Neville sighed. "It doesn't bode well though does it? I mean, if we haven't been approved by now…"

"I know mate," Ron said. "We have to keep trying though. This is everything we've been dreaming of."

They rounded another corner of the dark building, the day shift having long since ended. At the end of the hall, a single door stood ajar, a bright light visible behind it. Quiet permeated the space as they walked, their footsteps seeming disproportionately loud in the deserted space. With every step, Ron felt his gut tightening. Despite what he told Neville, he wasn't sure how many more times they could realistically submit for such a big ask. At some point, they would be completely shut down. Was this it? Was this the moment everything ended?

Ron grimaced as they came to a halt outside the door. He and Neville exchanged looks, then he pushed the door open wide.

"Hey Hugh." They stepped into the office, maneuvering around piles of robes and assorted items, and sat at the chairs in front of the desk. Behind the desk sat a tall, thin man. Shaped like a green bean, he had wispy greying hair and gold rimmed, thick glasses. His desk was as disorderly as the rest of the office, stacked high with misaligned files and loose sheets of paper. Several open ink bottles littered the space and Ron could see smudges on all the documentation.

Hugh grinned at them as they sat, and Ron's insides felt like they were stretched even tighter. "Did we get it?"

"Aye lads," Hugh smiled even bigger. He rustled through one of the piles and extracted a wrinkled paper before handing it to Ron. "I'm going to have to move some money around and reduce the number of beds in the long term ward, but if you do your jobs properly, then we won't need those anymore will we?" He continued to grin at the two healers, who looked at him in shock.

"What?" Neville finally asked. "We actually did it? You're telling me that-"

"I got funding approval for a new ward here at St. Mungo's," Hugh affirmed. "A new ward that is solely focused on the study and application of muggle psychology infused with magic, in order to assess- what was it?"

Ron looked down at the paper. "In order to assess the feasibility of better care for mental health and the reversal of long term magical damage, to be led by Healers Longbottom and Weasley." Ron's hands were shaking with adrenaline. He jumped out of his chair. "Are you bloody serious, Hugh? We did it?"

"Aye lads," Hugh beamed. "You did it." Neville jumped out his chair as well, whooping, all former exhaustion forgotten.

"This is bloody amazing." Ron couldn't believe their good fortune. "When do we get started?"

Hugh laughed. "I did tell the Board you'd both be very hard working, and that was a big selling point I think. Come by my office after your shifts tomorrow, and we'll discuss next steps."

Ron and Neville exchanged exuberant looks, and thanked the hospital director profusely as they retreated into the hall. They were no more than a few steps away when Ron sent a joyful terrier patronus sprinting down the hall. "Time to celebrate," he told Neville joyfully. "I'll have Harry meet us at Leaky."

* * *

As the two men loudly and joyfully exited the hospital, they didn't notice the small movements hidden away in the shadows. The disturbance made its slow, careful way through the various wards and up the stairs, until it arrived in the Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage. A long shadow crept through the curtained beds, coming to rest in the far corner, where it cast a lingering watch over the two sleeping forms of Frank and Alice Longbottom.


	2. Chapter 2

Neville paused outside the curtains surrounding bed nine, taking a deep breath and rubbing at his hazel eyes wearily. He was at the end of what had already been a long day, having spent his twelve hour shift in a consistent grind of appointments and consultations. When he went without talking to his parents or tending to his plants, usually out of necessity given the busyness of his schedule, he found his work both physically and emotionally more tiresome. He knew that the patient waiting for him now, his last patient of the day, would require that he spend even more of his emotional currency. So he steeled himself and gently opened the curtains.

"Mr. Peakes," Neville said, composing his face into a pleasant smile. He stepped through the curtains and closed them quickly behind himself. "How are you feeling today?"

"Not bad, Neville," Jimmy answered morosely. "As good as can be expected I suppose." His patient sat fully on the bed, legs dangling several inches from the ground. He was leaning back on only one arm, as the other one was missing from the elbow down. During the Battle of Hogwarts, Jimmy had been hit with a curse in his right arm that had rotted his flesh and threatened to spread to the entirety of his body. He'd been transported to St. Mungo's for an emergency procedure, but, unable to extract the curse, the healers had been forced to amputate.

Neville approached, appraising his patient closely. "Are you still feeling the pain?" Jimmy nodded silently. "May I?" Neville asked, gesturing to his right side. Jimmy nodded again, and Neville rolled up his sleeve to examine the appendage. "It looks great," he said encouragingly, rolling the sleeve back down.

"Don't get me wrong, Neville," Jimmy responded softly, seeming to fight the frustration seeping through his voice. "It's satisfying that you were able to give a name to… this," he held his stump up in the air, "but when can I hope to see improvement?"

"This is a very tricky phenomenon, Jimmy," Neville said sympathetically. A couple years ago, Neville had diagnosed Jimmy with Phantom Limb syndrome, the symptoms of which he'd been experiencing for over half a decade. Since Neville and Ron hadn't become fully qualified healers until two years ago, Jimmy had spent the interim time bouncing around departments in St. Mungos, trying to understand how he could feel pain in a limb that no longer existed. The healers had assumed Jimmy's condition was magical. He'd tried several different bizarre magical remedies, until Neville had figured it out. Once he'd explained to Jimmy that this syndrome- basically his mind playing tricks on him- was the likely culprit of his pain, Jimmy had been briefly ecstatic at the news. The more time that passed, however, the more the initial joy had worn off.

Frowning, Neville examined the premature wrinkles that formed around Jimmy's tired eyes. "We've missed you at the support group the last few weeks," Neville said carefully.

"I know," Jimmy averted his gaze. "But… it's hard to go. When everyone looks at me, they're just so... sad." Jimmy sighed. "It's like they're more sad than I am. I'm the one that lost an arm for Merlin's sake, not anyone else."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," Neville said. "I'll talk to them."

"No, no," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Can we just get started?"

"Sure," Neville opened the file, referencing a page in the back. "I've been thinking about your case a lot recently. I have an idea."

"Let's hear it," Jimmy intoned, staring straight ahead unenthusiastically.

"We've been trying various potions to block the nervous system responses, right?" Neville sat down on a stool near the bed, his nerves manifesting in the jiggling of his leg. When Jimmy nodded, he continued. "Well, some muggle doctors do the very opposite: they use electrical stimulus to calm the nerve signals. I propose that we lean into this idea."

"You want to use elektic stuff on me?" Jimmy yelped, turning to look at Neville directly.

"No," Neville reassured him. "Not at all." Jimmy let out a shaky breath. Neville eyed him, then cleared his throat nervously. "Ah- but," he ventured tentatively, and Jimmy looked concerned again. "I think we could magically simulate the electrical pulses."

Jimmy stared at him, wide eyed, for several long moments before finally speaking. "You're mental."

"I know it sounds crazy," Neville explained hastily. "It's just that…. the blocking of stimulus clearly isn't working for you. And, this solution... it's experimental, yes, but I've been doing a lot of research, and I think it has real potential. Here," Neville fished a vial of fine powder from his pocket. "I developed this additive for you."

"An additive?" Jimmy asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Yeah," Neville nodded, holding the bottle up. "It's mostly ginseng, but while I was grinding it up, I cast a very detailed, but well known, charm. Healers use a variation of it to get readings on the heart. The idea here is that it will make the real nerves near your missing nerves begin to understand what signals are real instead of fake."

"And the fake ones are what's causing the phantom pain?" Jimmy asked, and Neville nodded. He sucked in a deep breath, "It's interesting, but I don't know."

"Completely your call," Neville soothed. "All you have to do is mix it in your drink twice a week."

"Can I take it and think about it?" Jimmy asked doubtfully.

"Absolutely," Neville affirmed. "And I'll renew your prescription for the blocking potion as well. Please don't do both at the same time, but I'll let you decide which method you want to pursue."

"Thanks," Jimmy said, sounding suddenly exhausted.

Neville scribbled out a prescription and signed the release form, waiting another second before he spoke up. "What you've been dealt, Jimmy, it sucks." His patient cast his gaze down. "I think it would help you come back to the support group. I promise to run interference on the pity, but I still think it would help you to come back."

"Thanks Neville," Jimmy repeated, standing and gently pulling the file Neville held from his arms before walking towards the exit.

"Don't isolate yourself, Mr. Peakes," Neville called at the retreating form. Jimmy disappeared behind the curtain.

* * *

"Knock, knock." Ron pushed on Hugh's office door, surprised when it felt jammed on the other side. "Hugh?" He called through the limited opening, exchanging confused looks with Neville. It was finally the end of their shifts, and they'd gone to see Hugh to discuss next steps in their newly approved ward.

"Hold on," Hugh's voice floated back through, and they heard a muffled, "Locomotor." A low noise groaned as whatever was blocking the door was shifted slowly. As soon as he could, Ron pushed the gap in the door open wider and stepped through, followed closely by Neville.

Ron drew in a sharp breath as he looked around. The office was in more disarray than usual, crammed with overflowing cardboard boxes and disassembled furniture. Hugh stood in the far corner, pulling picture frames off the wall.

"What… what is this Hugh?" Neville asked, his voice wavering.

Hugh stood stock still, gripping the sides of the box tightly. "I'm afraid I have bad news lads." He turned around slowly, pushing his thick golden frames up the bridge of his nose. "I've ah- I've been let go."

"Let go?" Ron repeated faintly, looking around the room in disbelief.

"The Board voted this morning," Hugh affirmed. "I'm out."

"I'm sorry," Ron managed finally, his eyes ceasing their scan of the office and landing on the tall wispy man in the corner. "I'm so sorry Hugh."

"Can we help?" Neville asked.

"Nay," Hugh smiled sadly. "But thanks for asking." They looked at each other awkwardly for a few moments. "I was a few years out from retiring anyways," Hugh supplied, turning around to resume packing. "My husband will be pleased to have me home that much sooner. And," he added, stacking another photo into the bin, "before I was promoted here, I was a healer myself, you know."

"Not just a healer," Ron said warmly. "One of the best St. Mungo's has ever seen."

Hugh shot him a grateful grin. "I was thinking I could work private practice to supplement income. Keep myself busy. Anyways, I'll be ok." Neville shot Ron a glance, and they moved to the big bookshelf near the desk to help with packing. They worked in relative silence for a while, unshelving large medical tomes and placing them in the surrounding cardboard boxes.

Finally, Ron asked the question spinning wildly in his mind. "I'm sorry Hugh, but you have to explain. What happened?"

Hugh sighed. "The hospital... it's not doing well. Financially I mean."

"Really?" Neville asked. "It doesn't seem that way."

"I know," Hugh kept his back turned, avoiding their eyes. "I tried to hide it. I took some loans. I rearranged budgets. Nothing shady," he added hastily. "Don't get me wrong. But it caught up to me. The Board is replacing me with some business hotshot in the hopes of turning the hospital's books around."

"Not someone with a medical background?" Ron asked, surprised.

"Nay," Hugh affirmed. "From what I understand, she's a highly ranked transfer from the Ministry Financial Division. She'll be here in a week or two." Hugh pulled his wand out his pocket and flicked it, sealing up the box he was packing. He flicked his wand again and the box levitated over behind the desk to join a stack.

Hugh cleared his throat, finally looking at the healers. "There's- erm- something else you lads should know."

Something about his tone nearly made Ron flinch. "Yeah?" He asked, tension building in his gut.

Hugh rubbed the back of this neck uncomfortably. "The Board ah… well they pulled the approval and funding for your new ward."

The room fell into a stunned silence. Ron and Neville stared at Hugh, too shocked to react. "I'm sorry lads," Hugh said, voice breaking, "I'm sorry that my downfall has impacted you as well."

"No," Ron whispered, sinking onto a box and feeling his heart break. All of their hard work was circling the drain. He'd spent years pursuing this dream, only for it to be destroyed mere moments before it was given life.

"I'm sorry," Hugh supplied again helplessly.

"It's not your fault," Neville said dully, voice shaking.

"He's right," Ron voiced, fighting the fog that seemed to overtake his mind. He looked over at the tall man, hearing his own voice escape his lips as though someone else was speaking to him from a great distance. "Don't blame yourself, Hugh."

Hugh shook his head, and turned to open a new box. "You can try to talk to the new Director when she gets here," he suggested half heartedly.

"Don't worry about us." Neville's condolences were as empty as Ron felt. He knew there was no guarantee they'd be able to figure this out, but there was nothing Hugh could do for them now.

"I'm ah… I'm going to just wrap up in here," Hugh said, voice breaking. He began to clear off his desk, pausing to speak one last time, "you lads stay in touch, ok?"

"Alright Hugh," Ron said sadly, recognizing their dismissal even in his stunned state. "Good luck." He and Neville exited the room, their solemn demeanor in stark contrast to the previous day's.

* * *

A couple weeks later, Ron stood by the reception desk, sipping on a coffee and checking his watch. He'd had time to recover from the initial hopelessness of Hugh leaving, but the new Director had yet to start in her role. While Neville managed to conjure a cautious optimism about the future of their plan, Ron wasn't so sure. Most wizards dismissed their muggle training, and if the new Director didn't even have a background in medicine… Ron wasn't confident that their idea would be well received.

"Waiting on someone?" Sam, the brown skinned nurse on check in duty, interrupted his thoughts. She was leaning sleepily against her arm as she looked up at Ron from her seat.

"My sister," Ron answered. "Coffee?" He offered her the extra mug he was holding.

"Really?" Sam was surprised, but accepted it gratefully. "Thanks, I didn't have time this morning and there's no one else scheduled to help me at the desk until nine." She held it in both hands, smiling contentedly at the steam.

"You're welcome," Ron chuckled. "Ginny's running late, so it serves her right to lose her drink."

"I'm not that late," Ginny's voice cried indignantly behind him.

Ron spun around and surveyed his sister. She was wearing all black, tight pants tucked into her knee high boots. Her tunic top was flowy under the well fitted leather jacket, and her signature wavy red hair was loose and flowing. "Ever consider adding some color?" He asked her by way of greeting.

"At least I'm not stuck in lime green robes every day," she made a show of shuddering, then, grinning, ducked the playful swat of Ron's arm.

"Changing the world and all that," Ron countered, as he pulled her into a warm hug and kissed the top of her head. "Let's get you checked in."

"What're you here for?" Sam asked, setting the mug aside and pulling up a clipboard expectantly.

"Just visiting," Ginny smiled. "My brother here thought I could boost morale."

"Why's that?" Sam asked, eyes wide. Ginny, clearly unsure of how to answer, cocked her head slightly to the side and stared back, confused.

Ron snorted, amused by Ginny's reaction. "She's a pretty well known Quidditch player," he explained to Sam.

"Oh," she waved a hand. "I don't follow the sport. I'm a muggle born, and I don't care for heights, so I never got into it."

"Things I fundamentally will never understand," Ginny mumbled, shaking her head.

"Her name's Ginny Weasley," Ron supplied, still chortling, and Sam began filling in the paperwork. "She's going to help me visit sick patients in the long term wards on all the floors."

After they'd finished checking in and swung by the break room to fill up another mug for Ginny, the siblings worked their way up to the first floor.

"Treatment for Creature Induced Injuries," Ron told her as they climbed the stairs. "Beth told me there's a new werewolf who could use some cheering."

"Lead the way," Ginny said agreeably, swinging her hair over her shoulder. "I brought a few photos that the whole team and Gwenog signed, plus a hilarious story about how Harry got stuck for three hours in the VIP area of the stadium last weekend."

"Classic," Ron snickered, and he pushed open the door.

* * *

Hermione Granger surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror at her flat, scrutinizing her tightly coiled brown hair, which was right now pulled into a bun at the base of her neck. She leaned forward, critically inspecting the makeup on her dark brown skin, patting gently at her lipstick. She leaned back again, then took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to calm the anxious knots in her stomach.

Today was the first day at her new job, which she'd been unexpectedly offered (or more accurately, forcibly transferred to) about two weeks ago. She'd been working in the Financial Division of the Ministry for the last ten years, advancing through the ranks, and impressing all the right people. She was sharp, she knew money, and she worked hard.

Really, this transfer was her own fault, she reflected as she frowned and picked at rogue lint on her jet black blazer. A couple years ago, she'd initiated a project to dig into some of the Ministry's more outdated programs, and it'd taken her team most of that time just to fully understand all the books at St. Mungo's. Once they did and she presented her findings, however, the decisions had been quick. The hospital's Board of Governors, who'd until then had taken a we-can-never-spend-too-much-on-the-sick approach, cracked down on extraneous cash flows and promptly removed the Director.

When they'd formally asked her to take on the role, she felt completely surprised. She wasn't qualified for the job, she argued. She had no medical training. But who else knows the hospital's finances so intimately? The Board countered. Who else could be trusted to make decisions autonomously?

So here she was, dressing for the first day on the job where she knew no one and close to nothing about the organization. She rearranged her concerned face, trying to look self-assured. Hermione wanted to enter into this role as a strong and confident professional. She wouldn't let them know that she felt all the nerves and stress of an eleven year old aboard the Hogwarts Express for the first time. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, nodded at her reflection, and exited the bathroom.

* * *

"You're the coolest chaser ever," Davey cooed, looking at Ginny with wide eyes. "I have your poster."

"I see that," Ginny replied, smiling at her, and looking up at the wall behind her bed. "Do you want me to sign it?" The seven year old nodded her head so enthusiastically that Ron thought it might pop off. Davey was a long term patient of the second floor, here because of a severe case of Dragon Pox. Although it was normally an easily curable affliction, Davey was born with a rare genetic intolerance of the antidote, so they'd been magically slowing the progress of the Pox through her small body to a pace that she could handle. She'd eventually get over it safely, but it would take her years to do so.

Ron helped Ginny maneuver the magical barrier they had around them to prevent catching any airborne diseases, so that she could sign the poster.

"How'd you get to be so good at Quidditch?" Davey asked, watching the flourish of Ginny's quill.

"I practiced a lot," Ginny said, finishing up and sitting back down by the bed. "As much as I could."

"I can't practice anything," Davey said bitterly, wringing a fluffy pink niffler in her tiny hands. "I'm stuck in this bed all the time."

"I know it seems like forever," Ginny answered her kindly. "But it won't be. The healers say you'll even be able to go to Hogwarts, and then you can play all you want. And," Ginny leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you want to know what else?"

"What?" Davey asked in a hushed voice.

"When I was little like you, my brothers wouldn't let me play either," Ginny said in a dramatic stage whisper.

"What?" Davey exclaimed, looking aghast.

"It's true," Ginny nodded solemnly, leaning back in her seat and gesturing to Ron. "Ask this healer here, he's one of them."

"You didn't let her play?" Davey asked accusingly, shaking her finger at Ron.

Ron held up his hands defensively, "we didn't know she wanted to."

"Oh yes you did," Ginny rolled her eyes good naturedly, then turned back to the young patient. "So if I can practice when I'm older and still be a good chaser, then you can too."

Davey clutched the stuffed niffler to her chest, looking excited. "Ok, I will Ms. Weasley. I'll practise so I can be a Quidditch player too."

"That's the spirit!" Ginny replied, beaming.

"Davey, how do you like being here?" Ron asked her, keeping his tone soft. "I know it's not any fun to be stuck in bed, but is everyone nice to you? Are you ever angry or sad?"

"It's ok," she said thoughtfully, dancing the niffler around her bed. "The nurses give me chocolate and Healer Murphy says that I'm one of the best patients." She puffed her chest out proudly.

"Oh, you like chocolate, do you?" Ron asked, a sparkle in his eye. "You don't happen to like chocolate frogs?"

"Yes, I love them!" Davey bounced excitedly.

"Oh, how lucky! I have a couple in my pocket," Ron exclaimed, feigning relief. "I thought I was going to have to throw them away. Good thing I ran into you." He dug them out and placed them in her expectant hands. She clapped happily and began to open them.

"Where are your parents?" Ginny asked her, looking around.

"Mum comes every afternoon and stays the night with me," Davey said distractedly, examining the chocolate frog card. "She won't believe what she missed while she was gone."

"I tell you what, I'll come say goodbye before I leave," Ginny told her, standing. "Does that sound alright?"

"Ooo yes!" The child answered, beaming up at her hero.

"See you soon Davey," Ginny winked, and she and Ron moved onto the next bed.

* * *

"You're a shoo-in for the World Cup team this year," Troyce informed Ginny as he added two more cards to their Exploding Snap tower. Troyce was a middle aged patient on the third floor, having been in contact with some kind of plant that'd given him a rash over 90% of his body. He wasn't contagious, but they were still testing to identify which exact plant it had been. In the meantime, he was itchy and had been stuck at St. Mungo's for several days.

"Parkin's been flying very well," Ginny replied, inspecting the cards from all angles to decide her approach. She gently stacked three more cards onto the top.

"Nah, not as good as you," Troyce replied dismissively. "You'd be a much better choice for England."

"A man of excellent taste," Ginny grinned. "You can't distract me from this game though, and it's your turn."

Ron watched them play, engaging minimally in the discussion but entertained by their banter nonetheless. He peered around the ward, looking for signs of loneliness or other states of mental anguish. It wasn't that he didn't trust his fellow healers. They were all incredibly competent, and since he'd begun training and working at St. Mungo's, he'd been endlessly impressed by the technical knowledge of most of his colleagues. Their bedside manner though… it left something to be desired. No one had been trained in any capacity for gauging a patient's mental health, or the basics of signs of abuse or self harm.

He and Neville received mixed reactions from their fellow healers in what they were trying to accomplish, and he'd definitely not been given any approvals to cross train his coworkers. To be safe, Ron liked to bring some kind of visitor around every few weeks when he could, because it gave him a chance to check throughout the hospital. He had plenty of semi-famous war hero friends that were happy to volunteer. And one decently famous Quidditch star sister, he reflected, roaring with laughter as the tower of cards exploded while said sister was attempting her turn. She swore furiously, inciting Troyce into belly laughs as well.

"Healer Weasley," Gerard tugged on his arm urgently, and Ron spun quickly.

"What, is someone crashing? Where?" He asked, looking around wildly.

"No," Gerard responded. "It's the new Director. She's here."

"Oh," Ron breathed a sigh of relief. "Gerard, you had me terrified. What are you worked up about? We knew she was starting today."

"No," Gerard repeated, shaking his head impatiently and looking terrified. "I mean she's here. On this floor." He gestured wildly, and Ron glanced around interestedly. If she was making rounds on the first day, maybe she really did care about the welfare of patients, instead of only finances like they'd all been worrying. That could be a good sign.

"What's she like?" Ron asked, intensely curious. "Have you met her?"

Gerard looked over his shoulder and began backing away, "you'll find out in a second."

As Ron turned around, whatever words he'd been about to say died instantly on his lips. His eyes locked with familiar, intoxicatingly deep brown ones. He felt like he was trapped by Devil's Snare, helplessly watching in slow motion as one of the most intense and intelligent women he'd ever met strode directly towards him. She was even more beautiful than when they were in school. Her petite form was dressed sharply in an expensive suit, her wild hair forced into submission, and she exuded an aura of power. A small posse of the hospital desk jockeys- accountants, lawyers, etc- walked in her wake. Her eyes, deep pools he felt he could swim in, maintained their relentless hold on him, seeming to stretch out time itself.

Then suddenly, before he was ready, she was there, standing in front of him, a full foot shorter but feeling larger than life.

"Hermione Granger," he sputtered, attempting to take this new information in stride. "Blast from the past." His mind spun wildly. Hermione was muggle born, he thought, maybe she would appreciate his unorthodox approach to magical medicine.

"Ron," she nodded at him. "Ginny."

"Hey Hermione," his sister replied. "Haven't seen you since Hogwarts, how's it going?"

"Fine," Hermione nodded again. "I'm sure you heard," she began briskly.

"You're the finance hero sent to save us?" He half grinned at her, trying to maintain what little composure he had.

"I am the new Director, yes." She crossed her arms, and wrinkled her nose in the cute way he remembered. "So may I ask what you're doing?"

"Ginny's here to raise morale," he gestured behind him and Ginny, still lightly covered in ash, gave a cheerful wave.

"And do we pay you to raise morale?" Hermione asked, turning her attention away from Ron and zeroing in on Ginny. Ron felt equal parts relieved and upset at the absence of her gaze.

"No ma'am," Ginny saluted sarcastically. "Volunteer only."

"What about you?" Hermione's focus switched back to Ron so quickly he had to force himself not to take a step backwards. "I don't need to look at the books to know that we don't pay you to raise morale, Healer."

"Excuse me?" He raised an eyebrow, frustrated to be encountering this attitude so quickly. "You don't even want to discuss the merits of it? The endless studies I can provide that conclude that happier patients are healthier patients? The statistics of the effects of mental health on physical healing? The-"

"Not if it means," Hermione interrupted, "that an employee in one of the higher salary brackets is spending his working hours playing cards with his sister." Ron could only stare at her, slack jawed.

"What a whirlwind of a reunion," he spat bitterly, trying to ignore the pang of guilt he felt at the tiny moment of hurt he thought he saw on her face.

"My job here is to keep this hospital open," Hermione retorted, holding herself stiffly. "Nothing more or less."

"Ms. Granger," a mousey man interjected in a strangled voice. He was an accountant if Ron remembered correctly, and he stepped forward from her posse, clearing his throat nervously. "You wanted me to remind you of your two o'clock meeting."

"Thank you, Ben," she said crisply, never taking her eyes off of Ron. He matched her glare in equal parts. "We'll table this conversation for now," she ordered. After a short pause, she unexpectedly extended her hand. Ron took it instinctively, enveloping her small palm within his larger, freckled one. She shook it firmly. "Pleasure seeing you again, Ron. I look forward to our professional relationship." She spun around and blew out of the room, leaving it feeling almost muted in color.

Ron lowered his hand to his side, subtly clenching and unclenching it, trying to ignore how it tingled despite the anger he could feel bubbling up through his stomach. Aware that the entire floor was looking at him, aware that his ears had to be tinged pink, he turned back to Ginny and attempted a lame smile.

"Guess the new boss doesn't like me much," he joked, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Not at all," Ginny said cheerily, before she turned to elbow Troyce. "I give it three months before they're shagging," she told him, wagging her eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"Ginny!" Ron exclaimed, knowing he was blushing even more.

"He loves a strong woman," Ginny explained, talking to Troyce as though Ron wasn't there. "He always has. Most of my brothers do, in fact."

"Ah, in that case," Troyce said thoughtfully, "I'd put my money on two months. That was one hell of a woman."

"No joke," Ron groaned, ignoring their enthusiastic laughs. He was definitely going to be in trouble, one way or the other.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer than usual, accidentally! I wasn't going to post again this quickly either, but almost three chapters just flowed out of me today and I was just so excited about it. I'm sure this hasn't been quite as romantically focused as some would like, but hey- this story really wants to be told for some reason. :)
> 
> Thanks for stopping by and reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

Neville stood over the small herbal garden in the corner of his office, prodding one of the fiddlehead ferns gently with the tip of his wand. As he coaxed the tiny plant to slowly unstretch its tightly coiled tip, Neville picked up a vial of green oil and extracted an eye dropper. He expertly released two drops on the exposed veins of the fern before it coiled itself back up again. He tutted disapprovingly, shaking his head.

"That'll do for now, but you'd be better to let me apply more you know." The fern swayed happily, unaffected by Neville's stern tone. He sighed and closed the vial, carefully replacing it back on the shelf. He turned a bit to study his valerian, pleased with the pale pink beginning to highlight the small blooms. The corner of his office had been magically expanded, and was protected with a greenhouse ward that allowed him to artificially regulate the temperature and sunlight of his precious garden. It was nowhere near the size of the one he had in his home in south London, but he'd quickly discovered it'd made his work life much simpler to keep some of the essentials in the office for easy access. Not to mention the sense of peace and calm he found when he was surrounded by his plants. Neville continued inspecting the rows of plants, muttering to them lovingly and correcting the things he could.

He was focused so intently that when a voice spoke from his doorway, he yelped and nearly jumped to turn around, hitting his shin hard on the corner of the table with a loud crack.

"Are you ok?" The voice exclaimed, as he rubbed his leg grumpily and cursed under his breath. He'd come into the office early this morning to have a few hours uninterrupted, so who could be bothering him now? He limped out towards the door, surprised to see Hannah Abbott standing near his desk, wringing her hands. Her straight blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail over her shoulder, which, when paired with the cozy sweater and leggings she wore, gave her a very nice effect, Neville decided. He was just noticing the concern plainly written in her light hazel eyes when she spoke again.

"Are you hurt?" She repeated.

"No, no," he stammered, embarrassed he'd been caught staring. "I'm fine, thanks." They looked at each other in silence again, Neville completely unsure of how to proceed.

"Erm, can I?" She gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Yes," he exclaimed, flustered. "Right, let's sit," he hurried over to his desk and they lower themselves into chairs on opposite sides. Neville cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together a bit. "So," he said, "what can I do for you, Hannah?"

She fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater and her leg bounced restlessly. "I was told… I thought maybe you could…" She blew out some breath, seeming frustrated.

"Healer stuff?" Neville asked, surprised. "Why not make an appointment?"

"I don't need a healer," Hannah responded, a little too quickly. She averted her gaze from his and bit her lip, staring resolutely at the floor.

"Ok," he said gently, and leaned back in his chair. Neville examined her face closely, in full diagnosis mode now. She must have come in so early because she was hoping to not run into anyone she knew. That meant that whatever help she needed, it was likely personal and related to the special brand of mental health that he and Ron had come to be known for.

"What're those?" She asked, interrupting his thoughts as she gestured over his shoulder. Neville glanced back at the chain of Drooble's wrappers he'd draped over his window.

"Gum wrappers," he smiled at her. "Every time I get a new one, I fold it and add it as a link to the end."

"Why?" she asked, looking intensely curious.

"My mum gives them to me," he answered.

"You must really like gum," she responded, eyeing the chain doubtfully.

Neville shook his head. "Nah, I just really like my mum."

Finally, Hannah met his eyes and smiled back. "That's really sweet, Neville."

"Thanks," he shifted slightly in his chair, weighing his options. "I haven't seen you at the support group in a couple years." Hannah began fidgeting with her sweater again. "Is that why you're here this morning?"

"Listen," she jumped out of her chair. "I have to run. Going to be late for my first day."

"What?" Neville asked, surprised by this sudden reversal.

"Lovely chatting," she rambled, backing towards his office door. "See you around." As quickly as she'd walked in, she was gone. Neville sat in stunned silence, processing.

* * *

The beige privacy curtains around bed three weren't closed when Ron approached, giving him a clear view of the disgruntled wizard pacing around inside. It was mid afternoon, about a week after the start of the hospital's new Director, and the entire staff was on edge. She'd been auditing every department and conducting what she called "stakeholder interviews" in order to gather whatever information she needed to do her 30 day report out to the Board. No one liked change, Ron reflected, especially when it was forced with such a heavy hand. Still, it wasn't this patient's fault, so Ron tried to force a smile and said a pleasant hello as he approached.

"Why am I still here?" The man demanded, halting his steps and turning to glare at Ron.

Ron willed his expression to stay calm. "Did your previous healer give you a file to pass on?" He asked.

The man grunted and thrust the chart into Ron's arms before resuming his pacing. "I've been stuck in here for hours. All while Jesse," he spat out the name, "gets to enjoy MY family barbecue." Keeping one eye on his patient, Ron opened the file and skimmed it quickly. The man ranted on. "How is that fair? I didn't curse anyone, butI'm IMPRISONED in a bloody HOSPITAL and he gets Mum's treacle tart." He turned around to scowl at Ron again. Ron ignored it and resolutely kept perusing the chart, trying to take in the information as quickly as he could. "I tried to read that, you know," the man said accusingly, breaking the short silence. "Since no one will tell me what's going on."

"Mr. Thompson," Ron said authoritatively, snapping the folder shut. "Patient charts are charmed so only healers and nurses can read them. Now, please have a seat." Seeing the man's hesitation, Ron spoke again, struggling to keep his voice reasonably polite. "Bed three is near the front of the ward, and the curtains are not closed, so whatever scene you're thinking about causing will no doubt draw quite a crowd." The man continued glaring. Ron sighed. "Please, Mr. Thompson. I promise I'll get you out of here as soon as I can."

Begrudgingly, the man settled onto the edge of bed. "John," he mumbled, disgruntled. "Call me John."

"Thank you, John," Ron said, pulling up one of the stools and sitting as well. "My name is Ron Weasley. The reason you have not been released," Ron held up the file again. "Is because you suffered a head injury. It says here," Ron flipped through the papers, "that you were hit by an engorgement charm that caused both your skull and your brain to swell to approximately six-point-two times their original sizes."

"It was Jesse," John complained.

"And who's that?" Ron questioned.

"My brother in law. We were arguing because he insists that the Tornadoes are going to win the league this year," John burst out. "But he's such a bandwagon fan; the Wasps have been playing better! I mean come on, they beat-"

"Puddlemere before Wood got injured," Ron interjected. "I know! The Tornadoes barely eked out a win against Puddlemere last week with a weaker roster."

"Exactly." John blew out a breath. "You get it."

Ron chuckled. "I do, but was that a good reason to have a duel?"

"Duel?" John asked, surprised. "He cursed me when I wasn't looking."

Ron winced. "That's a low blow."

"Yup," John shook his head. "I do not know what my sister sees in him."

"So listen," Ron waved the file in the air, relieved that John seemed calmer. "You're here because we've instituted new protocols in St. Mungo's to check for concussions after incidents like this."

"Concussions?" John repeated faintly.

"Yes, and I'm sorry you had to wait so long, but there are only a couple of healers who are trained in this area," Ron explained.

"But... what is it?" John looked perplexed.

"A brain injury," Ron said simply. "If your brain shakes around in your skull, it can cause problems with concentration, memory, and coordination."

"Is it a new thing? I've never heard of it," John said.

"Nope," Ron shook his head. "Not at all new. In most cases, the symptoms are very mild and go away on their own, which is how we got away with not checking for it for so long. But in some cases, and especially those with repeat incidents, the repercussions can be more severe."

"Like what, out of curiosity?" John inquired.

"Irreversible brain damage that affects your day to day function," Ron said bluntly.

John let out a low whistle. "How do we check then?"

Ron stood up and walked over to the healer's desk. "It says in the file that you've vomited a couple of times since being here, correct?"

"Yeah," John shrugged, unconcerned. "My head was swollen."

Ron nodded, rummaging through one of the cabinets. "Your eyes have been slightly unfocused since we started talking, and I have to assume you have a headache right now?"

John rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "I mean yeah, a little one… But again, my head was swollen."

Ron straightened up, clasping a small vial of purple potion in his hand. "My colleague and I have developed a spell to scan the brain, but you need to drink this potion first." He offered the bottle to John, who accepted it hesitantly. "It's harmless," Ron soothed. "The shrivelfig interacts with the spell to make the imaging more clear." He walked back to the desk and scribbled a note, before magically folding it into a paper airplane and sending it zooming away from bed three. "Borrowed that from the Ministry," he grinned at his patient. "For your knowledge, this brain scan will help me look for signs of more extreme head trauma, not necessarily the concussion itself. I just want to be sure to rule out worst case scenarios."

"Is that likely, you think?" John asked, surprised.

"No, I honestly don't," Ron tapped his fingers on the desk absently. "Muggles don't usually bother with it, since the barmy way they scan their brains can cause more harm than good. But the way we do it is risk free, so, like my mum always says, better safe than sorry. Ah, here she is."

Beth approached them, levitating a silver cube in front of her. She settled it on the stool, then handed Ron a clipboard that he quickly signed.

"Do you need anything else?" She asked, fishing around in her magenta robe pockets. She pulled out a small stamp that imprinted itself on the line below Ron's signature and floated back into her pocket as she accepted the clipboard.

"Nope, thank you," Ron answered, smiling.

"Don't forget to bring it back to the nurses' station," she reminded him sternly as she turned to leave. "I don't want to go hunting it down again."

"You got it," Ron chortled, then wheeled the stool closer to John. "Are you ready?" He asked, addressing his patient.

"Now?" John squeaked.

"Yeah," Ron affirmed. "Bottom's up. Unless you have more questions?" John swallowed, but shook his head and tipped the vial back.

"It… tastes like grapes." John said, surprised.

Ron chuckled. "Neville will be pleased to hear it." He tapped the silver cube, which was about half a meter on each side, twice with his wand, and most of it became transparent, although the frame of the cube remained.

"I'm going to cast a spell," Ron explained. "That will interact with the properties of the potion in your system and map out your brain as a 3D image within this device."

"That's pretty cool," John admitted, and Ron grinned.

"Very. Do you have any other questions?"

John sat thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Nope. I'm ready to go home. Let's do this."

"Excellent." Ron pulled up the sleeves of his bright green robe and took a deep breath. "Are you comfortable? I need you to be very still for the next couple minutes."

John nodded, and Ron held up his wand, breathing deeply again. He moved the wand in a slow circle around his patient's head, muttering various incantations. The silver frame vibrated slightly and the space on the inside glittered with the gold outline of a brain. A small ball of magic bounced around inside the shape, slowly filling in the details of the brain scan in a spectacular golden display. Finally, with a small fizzle noise, the cube settled into stillness.

"Brilliant," John gaped.

"Let's have a look," Ron said, waving his wand to levitate the cube up to his eye level. He circled the instrument, examining the image closely while John sat in a stressed silence.

"Well, the good news is that I don't see any signs of fracture or bleeding," Ron said finally. "And the tissue appears undamaged." John breathed a sigh of relief as Ron flicked his wand at the cube, then tapped the file quickly. The folder turned gold. "I captured the image, so we'll have the history for next time."

"Is there bad news?" John asked.

"Yeah," Ron steadied his stance so that he had direct eye contact with John. "You're definitely concussed. I'm very sorry."

"What does that mean?" John frowned. "Can we fix it?"

"Definitely," Ron affirmed. "No reason to worry at all." He levitated the cube back to the table and placed it there gently. "I'm honestly tempted to keep you for overnight observation," Ron admitted, leaning against the healer's desk and watching John closely. "But I know you wanted to go back to your mum's house today, right?"

John looked pained. "Yes, please."

"Do you have someone you trust to help you overnight?" He asked, examining John's reaction critically. "They'll need to wake you up every few hours and check for symptoms."

John nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my sister."

"Ok," Ron agreed, then scribbled on the prescription pad and tore out the sheet. "This potion will counteract the nausea and headache." He opened a drawer and pulled out a brochure. "This is for your sister. It explains to her what to look for and for how long." He handed both pieces of paper to John. "It's also very important that you do NOT hit your head again for the next 48 hours, so tell your brother in law to lay off until Monday at least. And take the floo system home instead of apparating, just to be safe." He smiled at John. "Do you have any other questions?"

"Can I leave now?" John asked sheepishly.

"Yeah," Ron scribbled on the release notice in the file and handed it over to him. "Just leave this at the front desk on your way out."

"Thanks, Healer Weasley," John beamed, waving goodbye and almost running out of the ward. Smiling, Ron cleaned up the space, pleased that the appointment had ended in a much more friendly state than it'd started in. He was so lost in thought that he jumped a bit at the sound of a woman's voice behind him.

"That's an impressive instrument." He wheeled about, finding Hermione, who he hadn't seen since their encounter the previous week, peering closely at the gold image of the brain still suspended in the silver cube. The grey business casuall dress she wore accentuated her slender frame, and her curls cascaded to her shoulders. "It kind of looks like an MRI." Her intense gaze was slightly illuminated by the golden light, and he was mesmerized by the dusting of tiny freckles across her nose.

Mentally shaking himself, he crossed his arms over his chest. "That's what gave us the idea," he admitted gruffly, waving his wand to clear the image away. "It took us almost a year to develop. I suppose you're going to tell me that we spent too much money on it," he added scathingly, still feeling the jilt of their first meeting.

"Probably," she reflected softly, squaring up to face him. "I read about you and Neville's proposed new ward. I admit, I'm completely impressed by the concept of it." She gave him a small, fleeting smile which ignited a tiny fire in his chest.

"Er, thank you," he rubbed the back of his neck, put off by her calm reaction to his goading remark.

"Of course, the application itself was completely misguided," she said, matter of factly. "More focused on sentiment than fact. But, still."

Her return to bluntness almost made Ron smile. "Well, some things are more important than accounting, aren't they?" He asked, trying to keep his tone as soft as hers, in a sign of good faith.

"That's just it," Hermione frowned at him, putting her hands on her hips. "I feel like I should warn you, this hospital is in for some changes, Ron. It's unavoidable." He felt that whatever curtain she'd momentarily let him see behind had suddenly closed again. Her voice took on an authoritative and confident tone. "You have to understand that. If I can't sort out the financial situation here, St. Mungo's could be at risk of closing permanently."

"I don't believe that," he scoffed, feeling frustration boil to the surface again. He turned his back on her and began cleaning the space again. How could this woman, who was obviously so intelligent, not understand the truth he felt innately in his bones? These programs he was pushing for, they would change lives for the better. He couldn't give up on them.

"St. Mungo's is Ministry funded," Hermione pressed, her voice nearly callous. "The Ministry prioritizes the health and safety of its citizens, but it's been hemorrhaging money since the war. Everyone needs help and the Ministry doesn't have bottomless money bags. I don't know what would happen if we got into a scenario where we had to choose between public services."

"I understand," Ron answered her stiffly. He waved his wand to levitate the silver cube and stalked towards the exit, but was unable to leave without throwing one last jab. He paused with the curtain pulled to the side, flashing a grin at her. "Although I feel I should warn you, I foresee some enthusiastic disagreements in our near future."

Ron left the examination area, hoping that she was overstating the situation, in denial that his dream could be over before it even began. He walked the long way back to the nurse's station, floating the cube in front of him and lost in a memory from his time at muggle university.

* * *

"This stuff is barmy," Ron exclaimed, tossing a heavy textbook onto the couch beside Harry before flopping down himself. He was exhausted. He and Neville had been through two full terms now, and he was nearing the end of their third. Although it shouldn't be surprising, he always felt caught off guard by how much studying and work was required in the last several weeks of a semester for final papers, projects, and tests. It was similar to Hogwarts, he supposed, but it felt like more was on the line now.

"What're you studying?" Harry asked, flipping open the textbook at random and perusing the pull quotes. "Cotard's syndrome?"

"Yeah that one's wild," Ron replied, eyes wide. "Basically the person thinks they're dead, like they're a walking corpse or something."

"Trippy," Harry whistled. "Like an inferious?"

"Not really," Ron stretched back on the sofa and put an arm behind his head. "It's totally in their mind; a psychological disorder."

"Wow," Harry flipped through the bizarre phenomenon in the book pages. "Do you really think you'll find all this at St. Mungo's?

"Nah," Ron rubbed at his chin, as the beginnings of the beard he was trying to grow were quite itchy. "Neville and I reckon we want to focus on less extreme issues, like depression and learning disorders. Those are more common and, in some cases, no less severe. But, I'm enrolled in this course and it includes a segment on extraordinary conditions." He shrugged. "So here I am," He tugged the corner of the book towards himself. "Learning about… alien hand syndrome."

"What is that?" Harry asked, enthralled.

"A neurological disorder," Ron read, "where a person's limb moves without their control, making them feel it does not belong to them. It is thought to be caused when the connections between the brain's two hemispheres are severed."

"Woah."

They heard the front door of Grimmauld place open loudly before Neville's voice drifted in, "anyone home?"

"Living room," Ron called back, and Neville appeared a few minutes later, bags under his eyes.

"Oh good, Harry, you're here." Neville dropped his pack on the floor and threw himself into the armchair.

"It is my house," Harry chuckled good naturedly. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a couple days."

"Term paper," Neville answered tiredly. "Listen, what is a- it's such a long word." He unzipped his backpack and pulled out some notes, scanning them. "De-fib-rill-ate-or."

"Er," Harry frowned. "How was it used?"

"The professor was talking about how some people can be clinically dead for several minutes before being brought back to life, and what kind of experiences they claim to have in that time," Neville explained. "She kept saying, 'in the case of a de-fib-rill-ate-or,' but I have no idea what she was talking about."

"Oh, I know," Harry exclaimed. "It's those electric paddle things muggle doctors use to shock patients' hearts."

"What?" Ron yelped.

"Yeah. Here," Harry said, and turned on the small tv perched on the gothic fireplace mantle. He flipped through the channels until he found a medical drama. "I'm sure it'll happen soon," he speculated. "When a muggle's heart stops, the doctor uses electricity to jump start it again. Like a car battery." Neville and Ron looked at him blankly. "Bad analogy, sorry guys. Erm," he cast around. "Like when a fire is going out, but you can use a little spark to kick it back up."

"I need a drink for this," Ron said, waving his wand. "Want anything?" Harry and Neville both affirmed, and a six pack of butterbeer floating into the room from the kitchen. "I rarely get to use magic these days," Ron shrugged, in answer to Harry's raised eyebrow. He opened a bottle and leaned back in his seat. "So, what's the term paper about, Neville?"

"Radiology," he answered, grabbing a bottle himself and twisting the top off. "We've been learning about how to read and diagnose the imaging. The professor wants us to write a paper on a case study, so I've been researching to find a good one on the brain."

"Nice," Ron said appreciatively. "I'm excited to take that course next term."

"Me too," Neville replied. "For you I mean. I'm thinking we can definitely magically adapt some of those methods."

"I'm proud of you guys," Harry said suddenly, and the other two turned to look at him, slightly surprised. "Er, I just mean…" He rubbed his nose uncomfortably. "None of us were good in school, you know?"

Ron chuckled. "We all made good use of the tutoring program at Hogwarts, yes."

"Me because I needed help," Neville pointed out. "You because you had a crush on the tutor."

"Oi!" Ron threw a pillow at Neville. "That is not true. Besides, Harry was having a moment." The both turned back to look at The Chosen One, smirking in amusement as he looked somewhat abashed.

"It's just that you're really doing this, you know? And it's not easy for you, but you're motivated, and I dunno…" He lost steam, gesturing hopelessly at his friends. "It's just nice to see you find a purpose like this."

"Thanks mate," Ron said, giving him a small, awkward smile.

"Yeah, Harry," Neville nodded. "We wouldn't have made it without your letting us live here, and helping us learn about computers and stuff."

"Speaking of which," Harry looked relieved to change the subject. "Have you figured out how to type a paper, Neville?" He asked kindly.

"I'm much better at it now," Neville assured him. "Plus the librarian is very helpful, and she never thinks any of my questions are odd."

"I'm sure she's heard everything," Ron said seriously. "I had to get her to help me with all the wires last time."

"I think we should go this weekend to buy a computer for Grimmauld Place," Harry suggested. "Then you two can study here sometimes." It was a mark of how much work they'd been doing that Ron and Neville readily agreed to Harry's idea.

"Oh, that reminds me," Neville exclaimed. "I was wondering about floppy disks…"

* * *

Neville stepped out of the elevator on the first floor and made his way towards the potioneer office. He was still rubbish at potions, but with all the research and experimenting that he and Ron had been doing, especially regarding his herbs and plants, potions was a big part of his job. Luckily, St. Mungo's kept a five person potioneering team that managed the intake of prescriptions for patients and were happy to help Neville with his special requests when they had time.

"Healer Longbottom," Summer greeted him as he approached the plexiglass window she sat behind. "Got anything fun for me today?" Summer was the lead potioneer, although she'd been only a few years ahead of him at Hogwarts. She had jet black straight hair that went down to her waist, brown skin, and green eyes. She was barely five feet tall, but her family had a long history of potion making that sang through her blood. Neville was quite envious of her skill with a cauldron, and extremely pleased to be able to work with her.

"Yes," Neville grinned. "I'm very excited about this one. I'm not sure about the techniques, but take a look at these quantities." He held up a piece of paper and she waved her wand to summon it through the barrier. As soon as it appeared in her hand, she poured over it.

"The four to three ratio is to-"

"Counteract the side effects of nausea, and help boost the release of hormones-"

"That stimulate the memory centers of the brain," she finished, looking at him excitedly. "This is brilliant."

"Thanks," he beamed back. "I hope it works. It could really turn my parents around."

"I have quite the backlog of prescriptions at the moment," Summer said apologetically. "You know those have to come first."

"I understand," Neville replied. "I can't bring you the Siberian Sage until next week anyways. Just let me know as soon as you have time. Just don't work too many hours," he said sternly. "I don't want to get another earful from Susan about how you missed dinner again."

"My wife knew what she was getting into," Summer grinned, but she nodded agreeably. "I promise I'll be good." Waving, Neville walked back into the main part of the hospital. He chatted with Sam while he signed out of his shift, and swung on his coat.

"Healer Longbottom," Beth hustled down the hall, waving her arms. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

"What's wrong?" Neville asked, feeling instinctively worried as Beth approached.

"Nothing, it's not bad," Beth said, panting slightly. "It's your mom. I think… I think she was trying to write something."

"What?" Neville yelped. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, and before you run off, she's already asleep," Beth said, catching his sleeve and stopping his momentum. "She exhausted herself. You should just wait to see her tomorrow."

Neville sighed, frustrated, but he knew she was right. When his mom or dad overexerted themselves with their therapy, they slept very deeply afterwards.

"Here," she shoved a piece of paper into his hands. "I need to go back to my shift, but I thought you'd want to have this."

Neville opened the paper as Beth ran off again. It contained only a handful of letters: C O D and something that could be either an R or a K? He was unsure, but he held the page tenderly for several minutes, admiring the crayon strokes. He carefully folded it up and placed it within his briefcase, feeling as though his heart might burst.

"Wish me luck, Sam," he crooned, walking happily down the hallway. "I'm going to meet the new boss."

* * *

Hermione sat with closed eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose and breathing deeply. She'd been looking through all the documentation she could get her hands on, digging into St. Mungo's history and current state of… well everything. It was a lot to consume, most of which she'd been forced to do at night, as during the day she tried to interact with the hospital staff as much as she could. The result was grueling, long days, but she felt she owed it to the organization to be as thorough as she could. She was supposed to report her recommendations to the Board in a little less than three weeks.

She heard a gentle knock on the door of her new office, and muttered a tired, "come in."

"Rough first week?" A familiar voice asked her, and she looked up in surprise.

"Neville," she exclaimed delightedly, and jumped from her seat to hug him.

"I heard a rumor you were the new Director," he smiled. "I wanted to come see you sooner, but I figured I'd give you a couple days to settle in a bit."

"I knew I wasn't going to be popular here," she sighed, resuming her seat behind her desk. "My job is to literally cut budgets."

"I'm sorry," Neville said consolingly. "That's not a fun position to be in." She shook her head, frowning. "Tea?" Neville offered, taking a seat himself and pulling out his wand.

"Yes please," she gave him a tired smile, watching as he conjured two steaming mugs and handed her one. "I just tried to be professional but strict, you know, set a good precedent." She accepted the cup, staring at it dejectedly. "I don't know, maybe it was too much."

"I'm sure you did wonderfully," Neville soothed.

"I know you've already heard stories to the contrary," Hermioned laughed bitterly. "Your friend Ron certainly thought so," she added in a small voice, almost cringing at the memory. She'd been trying to balance hard-ass with reasonable, but something about seeing Ron again after so many years had caught her completely off guard. "I laid into him pretty hard," she admitted uncomfortably.

"I did hear about that one," Neville conceded, taking a sip of his tea. Was he avoiding her gaze? She studied him sharply.

"What're you not telling me?" She finally asked.

"It's nothing," Neville said fleetingly. "Not a big deal, it was your first day and everything, and like you said, you needed to establish your authority around here…" He trailed off lamely.

"But?" She prodded him. He sighed deeply.

"Well, it's just that… well, it was his day off, Hermione." Neville looked sheepish.

"His day off?" Hermione asked faintly. "He was here with Ginny… They were visiting patients, and-"

"Oh yeah, he likes to bring in friends sometimes to cheer people up," Neville smiled. "Harry Potter days are very popular."

"On his days off?" She repeated, feeling the full implication of the interaction come crashing down around her. She'd told him off in front of an entire ward of people for playing cards on the clock, when in fact he hadn't been on the clock at all. The memory of his chiseled, handsome face, wearing an expression of mingled anger and shock, swam into her view. She'd almost instantly regretted her unintentionally harsh tone, yet she'd been unable to tear her eyes away from his. He'd grown broader since school, filling out his lanky frame, and although his face was as kind and friendly as she remembered, it had also matured favorably, a fact especially highlighted by the full auburn beard he sported.

"Yup," Neville affirmed, shocking her out of her reverie. "On his days off."

"Why didn't he just say that?" She exclaimed, exasperated, and set her cup down in its saucer with rather more force than she meant to.

"He's stubborn," Neville explained. "You didn't get to know him that well in school, I guess, but he can be pretty headstrong."

"I did a bit," she chewed on her lip and looked away. "The same way I know you. Although I spent more time with you I suppose, because..."

"I attended the tutoring program in the library every day?" Neville supplied, laughing. "It was a long time ago, Hermione, and I'm not embarrassed that I needed a tutor. You were a brilliant one."

She smiled at him tiredly. "But I don't understand, what is it that he's being stubborn about?"

"Ron and I, we…" Neville trailed off, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. "We've done a lot of unorthodox things, trying to incite change here."

"I read your proposal for a new mental health ward," Hermione said. "I'm fascinated by that idea."

"You read one file?" Neville asked her. She nodded, feeling confused. He let out a deep breath again. "It's just… It's been a long and difficult uphill battle for us, Hermione. Just when we thought we were making progress, Hugh was fired and you were brought in. We don't blame you," Neville waved his hand at her protests. "But it was discouraging, to say the least." He drank the last of his tea and stood up. "I don't suppose you're going home anytime soon?"

"Definitely not," she gestured at the mountains of papers stacked neatly on her desk. "I need to get up to speed."

"Tell you what, there will be several more folders in there about Ron and me," Neville promised her. "And if you still have questions after that, come talk to us."

She nodded, and he reached across the desk to place his hand on her shoulder encouragingly. "If anyone can do this, Hermione Granger, it's you." He smiled, and she nodded, feeling her spirits uplifted in having at least one person who believed in her. As Neville exited the office, Hermione got to work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excited about this one! Lots of Neville love. For those readers who are here for the Romione, and I have a TON of it planned next chapter!
> 
> I've recently been distracted by an idea for a short Christmas fic, so I might take some time to write that in the next couple of weeks! That would be very short and all Romione fluff. :) 
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

"Ah, welcome Healer Weasley, welcome." A wizard with wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes gestured dramatically at Ron to take a seat. Gilderoy Lockhart was reclining in one of the two armchairs near his bed at St. Mungo's, decked in an extravagant purple dressing gown with a matching hat.

"Er, thanks, Gilderoy," Ron muttered awkwardly. While he knew that, logically, Lockhart's condition wasn't Ron's own doing, he still felt slightly responsible about the situation.

"I expect you've come to admire my new photographs," Lockhart boasted, pushing a binder under Ron's nose. "Miriam helped me take them," he added excitedly.

"Healer Strout," Ron corrected automatically, although he knew it would do no good. He flipped through page after page of the pictures, each one flashing Lockhart's pearly white teeth.

"She brought in a professional photographer and everything," Lockhart said proudly. "He said I must have done it before, because I was so natural in front of the camera. Can you believe that? I was probably in modeling shoots all the time, don't you think?"

"Um, yeah, they're really great," Ron said faintly, closing the binder. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of Neville's voice.

"Good morning Gilderoy," Neville said warmly, pulling up a wooden stool and sitting down facing the armchairs.

"Healer Longbottom," Lockhart exclaimed excitedly. "You likely heard about my new photographs haven't you?" He chuckled and shook his head. "My, my, how gossip simply flies around this place."

"Oh yes," Neville nodded seriously. "Healer Strout told me all about them."

"Of course, of course," Lockhart smiled in false humility. "Shall I start signing, then?"

"Absolutely," Ron affirmed, knowing that would distract Lockhart for a few minutes. As their patient rummaged around in the bedside drawer to find his "favorite signing quill," Ron leaned in closer to Neville. "Should we try that balm you used on your parents? They reacted quite favorably to it."

"That's what I was thinking," Neville agreed, pulling the tube out of his pocket. "Lockhart didn't seem to show any improvement from the potion treatment, so let's do two weeks of regular application of this and see if we get anywhere."

"I'll do it myself," Ron muttered, holding out his hand for the lotion.

"You don't have to," Neville told him, although he handed the tube over. "I know you feel guilty, but it really wasn't your fault."

"I know," Ron snapped. "Well, mostly," he amended at the disbelieving look on Neville's face. "I just feel bad for the bloke. He may not have been a particularly- er- _talented_ wizard, but he was at least a fully functioning adult."

"Some would argue it's better for him this way," Neville said thoughtfully, watching Lockhart merrily sign photographs in childlike writing. "He never had to answer for his theft and plagiarism, so he never suffered the public disapproval of being exposed."

"Dumbledore didn't think it would be fair," Ron shook his head. "Said that since Lockhart couldn't remember the crimes, he shouldn't suffer for them."

"I agree, and I don't," Neville said after a long pause.

"I know," Ron ran a hand down his face, mussing his beard. "It's not simple, is it? If he were to get his memory back? I dunno."

"It feels weird to try to heal him, just to make him a villain," Neville said, rather nervously.

"Ah, that's not what I meant," Ron gave his friend a small smile. "He's suffering a condemned fate as it is now, whether or not he knows it. I do sincerely believe that, as healers, we have an obligation to do everything we can to help him, regardless of what waits for him on the other side."

"Hmm," Neville chewed on this, considering. "I can agree with that, Ron, at least. It's the first rule of both muggle doctor and magical healer school, isn't it?"

"Do no harm," Ron agreed, unscrewing the cap of the tube. "Gilderoy," he called, standing up. The blonde man looked over at the healers, still beaming. "Let's try this new lotion on your hands and arms. It will do wonders for your skin."

"What a splendid idea," Lockhart said amiably. "You don't mind doing this one first do you? I need it to keep endorsing these photos." He winked at Neville. "With all my fans, I can't keep them signed fast enough."

"Sure," Ron agreed, and he began to massage the magicked balm into Lockhart's skin. While he worked, he looked over his shoulder at Neville. "Did you go see Hermione?"

"Yup," Neville affirmed. "She's going to review more on our proposal, but can't make any promises beyond that."

Ron huffed, switching over to Lockhart's other arm. "Figures. I wonder if it's even worth pursuing the new ward right now."

"Don't say that, Ron," Neville said quietly. The silence that fell between them was so poignant that Ron immediately felt guilty again. He finished up with Lockhart and helped him find his quill before turning and looking at his coworker.

"I'm sorry, Neville, I didn't mean that," Ron assured him. "I won't give up on the ward. Or your parents. I'm just frustrated right now, is all."

"I know," Neville said in a small voice. "We can work together to convince Hermione though… I know we can. We.. we just have to."

"We will, mate," Ron told him, clasping his shoulder and smiling down at his friend. "We'll find a way, I promise you."

* * *

Neville sat at his desk, examining the article he'd cut out of the Daily Prophet last week. "New Owner of The Leaky Cauldron Expected to Open for Business Today." Below the headline stood a beaming Hannah Abbot, waving merrily at the camera from behind the bar of the familiar establishment.

"This is definitely what she meant by her first day," Neville muttered to himself, watching the small figure wave over and over from the grainy photo. He pulled out a small piece of parchment and scribbled a note.

_Hannah-_

_Congratulations on the Leaky reopening! You should have mentioned when we chatted. I can't wait to come see your new place of work. I hope you're doing well. Don't be a stranger,_

_Neville_

He read it and reread it, before nodding decisively. He rolled up the parchment with the newspaper clipping and crossed briskly to the window of his office. He tied it to the leg of an old barn owl, and he stood in the sill until the tiny speck of the flying bird had long passed out of his view.

* * *

Ron viewed the young Hufflepuff student sitting moodily in front of him. She picked at the hem of her Hogwarts skirt, studiously avoiding his gaze. He turned back to her dad, who was standing with his arms crossed, frowning.

"Kendra, answer his question," he barked, losing patience with his daughter.

"Why?" She argued, now examining her nails. "The answer is simple. I'm just dumb. No reason to come pull me out of school on a Hogsmeade weekend to drag me to St. Mungo's."

"You are not dumb," her dad answered sternly. "But you are being rude."

"Might I interject?" Ron asked, delicately. Randall, the girl's father, threw up a hand in exasperation and gestured for Ron to continue. They were in a repurposed office on the main floor of the hospital, seated around a small round conference table instead of the usual examination bed.

"Kendra," Ron turned his full attention to the teenager, firmly ignoring her apparent lack of attention. "You took some tests with nurses when you arrived here this morning, right?" She shrugged, and he flipped open the folder of results, reading them aloud to her.

"Your vision is 20/20, your hearing is perfect, and your motor skills tested at completely normal levels given your age and growth," Ron flipped to the next page, noting from the corner of his eye how she looked up at him curiously. "We have surveys from your teachers and parents, which align with your own questionnaire by the way, and we have good reason to believe that you're developmentally and socially a perfectly lovely, even above average witch. I do not think," he made complete eye contact with her now, thinking that for all the world she looked as though she was drowning, and he was throwing her a lifeline, "that you are in anyway below standard intelligence, let alone 'dumb.' "

"Really?" She asked, forgetting to look disinterested.

"Really," he affirmed, closing the folder. "The reason you're at the hospital right now, is that I've been working with a few teachers at Hogwarts to identify when students could be suffering from learning disorders. In certain cases, we ask that the parents attend consultation sessions here at St. Mungo's, if they are willing, to which your father here agreed."

"A learning disorder?" Randall asked sharply, causing Kendra to roll her eyes and Ron to suppress his groan.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "It is my opinion that Kendra could be dyslexic."

"What is… dis-leg-ic?" Randall asked suspiciously, keeping one eye on his daughter, who was slumped in her seat again, back to ignoring everyone.

"The easiest way to explain is to show you," Ron said simply, handing Randall a piece of paper. Randall looked at it, squinting his eyes and muttering to himself.

"Is this some kind of joke?" He asked, handing the paper back. "The letters are all jumping around; how am I supposed to read that?"

"That is what being dyslexic can mean," Ron explained, placing the paper back in the folder. "It's a learning disorder that affects the areas of the brain that processes language. It means that difficulty reading is due to problems identifying speech sounds and learning how they relate to letters and words." He turned back to Kendra, who was now giving him her undivided attention. "Does that sound familiar to you Kendra?"

She glanced at her dad quickly, before looking back at Ron and nodding almost imperceptibly.

"Really, Kendra?" Randall asked, earning a glare from his daughter before he broke out into a grin. "See, I told you that you weren't dumb, didn't I? This is great! It means we can work on overcoming it! Er, right, Healer Weasley?" He hesitated, looking over at Ron who nodded firmly.

"Definitely," Ron said. "Hogwarts is working on building a phonics program, but in the meantime, you can meet with Professor Flitwick once a week. He's helped us develop some charms that you can use on your books and papers to adjust the fonts and may make reading easier for you. We'll also have you floo here every other Saturday to perform some exercises with me or the nursing staff, at least for the short term."

"This is…" Kendra trailed off. "I mean… thank you."

Ron grinned at her, and her dad, who hadn't stopped smiling. "I won't lie to you," Ron warned gently, looking between the two of them. "This is not always easy work, and you will get very frustrated from time to time. But in the end, there's no reason why you won't be able to function like everyone else you know. Maybe even better," he added, standing up and giving them a half shrug. "Some studies show that people with dyslexia are especially creative in other areas."

Kendra smiled, a real smile, and she and her father thanked Ron again before they were escorted out of the room by another member of the staff.

"You've got to stop spying on my appointments," Ron called softly, glancing over to the doorway. Hermione started a bit, standing up straight from where she'd been leaning on the frame silently.

"You're doing some interesting things," she replied, unashamed at being caught. She took a few steps forward into the room. "I can't help but be curious. May I?" She asked, pointing at the file. He nodded, and she pulled out the top paper to study it. "This is extremely difficult to read," she murmured, before glancing up at him. "How did you know how to simulate dyslexia?"

He paused, gazing at her incredulously. After a long beat, when he felt sure she was being sincere, he asked, "do you really not remember?"

"Remember… what?" She tilted her head to the side, tight curls brushing the shoulders of the tweed blazer that she wore cinched at her petite waist over a knee length dark green dress.

He leaned back to perch himself on the edge of the table and crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at her interestedly. "That day in the library?"

"Which day in the library?" She asked, looking confused, taking another small step towards him.

Again, Ron stared at her, unsure of how to proceed. She had an annoyingly good memory, but that was one day, a very long time ago. She stared back at him, her small mouth making a faint O shape that he couldn't quite look away from.

Finally, he decided on a course of action. "You wound me," he teased, clutching at his chest dramatically. He shifted his weight forward to stand, and found himself closer to her than he'd realized. So close he could see those freckles on her nose again, which was now crinkling in amusement. "I should probably get going," he added quietly, pulling the paper from her hand gently. He sidled to the side a bit to create some space between them, and grabbed the file off the table. "Before you ruin this lovely moment by talking about budgets." He smirked at her, and he thought it looked like she bit her lip to keep from smirking back.

* * *

_Dear Neville,_

_Thank you for your kind note. I'm still getting up to speed on how to run the place, but the Leaky Cauldron is beautiful in its own way, and I'm excited to be part of her history. Why don't you come by soon? First drink for you is always on the house. Cheers,_

_Hannah_

Neville folded the note up carefully and put it in the pocket of his healer robes, unable to suppress a grin that had nothing to do with his work for the day.

* * *

A few nights later, Ron looked out over the couple dozen people sitting on the stools crammed into the walking paths of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. They were all listening attentively to Seamus Finnigan discuss his experience during the Battle of Hogwarts. Ron was so proud of this group of survivors, showing up weekly to his support group.

He and Neville had spent four years attending classes at the muggle university, and when he realized it would be another three years of healer training before they would be fully qualified, he'd had the idea to start an informal support group, like the kind muggles have. Everywhere he'd looked, Ron had seen people who, despite being removed by some time from the end of the war, were broken and hurting.

It had taken Ron longer to convince George to attend the meetings than to host them, but he'd been persistent. Of all the people in his life, very few seemed more affected by the war than his brother. He was biased, but Ron felt the last five years of support group meetings had done a lot of good for George.

The group had started small and grown over time, and although the faces weren't all exactly the same week to week or year to year, people attended with consistency more often than not. Besides, Ron reflected, sometimes a person not needing the group anymore was a good thing.

Ron was drawn out of his reverie by the sound of gentle clapping rippling around him. He stood to address the small crowd.

"Thank you for sharing, Seamus," the group turned their attention to Ron, who beamed at his old classmate warmly. "I wanted to take this opportunity to welcome some new and returning faces. Our old friend Jimmy Peakes is back tonight," he paused for applause.

"Looking as fit as ever," Neville called above the noise, and winked at his patient. "Still playing Quidditch?"

"Every Sunday," Jimmy called back, cracking a rare smile.

"And we are joined today, for the third time ever," Ron continued, once it was a little quieter, "by Anthony Goldstein." He gestured to the burly man grinning sheepishly across the aisle from him. "So let's make him feel welcome, team." The group cheered again. "That's all for this session, but enjoy the snacks we've provided, and remember to be kind to yourselves, please. We'll see you next week, same time, same place."

People stood, converging on the newcomers and chatting with each other. As they gathered around the table stocked full of food, Ron felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.

"Good one tonight," Harry congratulated, handing Ron a glass bottle of butterbeer.

"Yeah, I think it was," Ron replied happily. "No Ginny?"

"Sorry mate," Harry shrugged. "She had practice. Sends her love though."

"Getting a little tight in here," George reflected, swaggering over to the pair with Angelina.

"Yeah," Ron frowned. "The shop's not really meant for meetings like this."

"We'll think of something," Angelina said positively, absently straightening out the collar of George's shirt. "This work is too important to not do."

"You got that right," George agreed, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Wouldn't have been ready for this woman, if this group hadn't helped me heal."

"Why George," Ron reflected. "That's downright adorable. Almost sickening."

"Jealousy does not become you, little bro," George quipped.

"It has been awhile since you've been on a date," Harry agreed, turning to survey Ron. "Not since you reconnected with that muggle girl you went to school with, and what was that, a few months ago?"

"When did this become about me?" Ron asked, whipping his head between his friends. "We were taking the mickey out of George, remember?"

"You know, I have some friends I could set you up with," Angelina supplied thoughtfully. "As long as they like scraggly beards." She squinted at him mockingly, then smiled. "That probably narrows it down, but I'm sure I could find someone."

"And I have a deep well of knowledge about women," George added solemnly. "Ask me anything; my cup runneth over."

"It's hard with the long hours I work, and the inconsistent schedule..." Ron argued weakly.

"We'll send you some names tomorrow," George consoled, placing his hand on Ron's shoulder. "And a custom book of dating advice from yours truly. How attached are you to your profession? Lime green will never be your color."

Ron rolled his eyes, fighting a smile, as Harry chortled. It was nice, even after a long day of work, to be surrounded by his family.

* * *

Neville pushed open the door to the Leaky Cauldron, having talked Ron and Harry into joining him for a drink there after the support group ended. Although, he blushed thinking about it, he hadn't thought necessary to specify his real reason for wanting to go. They found the pub strangely crowded, patrons milling around the main space with an almost angry energy.

"What's happening?" Ron asked a wizard wearing a muggle admiral hat.

"No bartender," the man barked. "How're we supposed to get drinks, eh? I tell you this new management has gone to the dogs."

"Hey now," Neville said sharply. "No need to badmouth the management."

"What's up, Neville?" Harry asked him, pulling him and Ron quickly to the side to avoid further confrontation with the grumpy patron.

Neville winced. "That obvious, huh?"

"Come clean, mate," Ron said, nodding.

"It's ah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, Hannah, remember her? From school?" They nodded. "I saw in the Prophet that she's the new owner here. I thought we could come say hi."

"Where is she, you think?" Harry asked, looking around. "There are plenty of people who need to be served. She'll have a mob of angry customers soon."

"What else, Neville?" Ron asked suspiciously, eyeing his friend closely.

Neville blinked in surprise. "I, I mean, I have no proof, but…" Ron nodded at him again. "She came into St. Mungo's a couple of weeks ago acting rather… odd. I think she may have been trying to ask for help of some kind? But I can't be too sure." He shook his head. "It happened so fast."

"Any other symptoms?" Ron asked him, gesturing for his friends to follow him over to the bottom of the staircase that led up to the lodging area above the bar.

"No," Neville replied. "Again, it was quick, but she didn't seem to have any indications of substance withdrawal, no nervous manifestations, no weird scars or abrasions that were visible. Just…" They arrived at the foot of the staircase and Neville stared up at them, clenching his fists. "Just a gut feeling, you know?"

"Yeah," Ron pushed him gently in the back. "Go on up, Harry and I will make sure no one follows."

Neville nodded and climbed the stairs quickly. He turned to the left at the top, moving to the quarters at the end of the hall reserved for the proprietor. He stood outside the door and listened hard, but could hear no movement on the other side.

"Hannah," he called softly, knocking on the door. "Hannah, are you there?" There was silence again, then a shattering noise, a curse, and some muffled sobs. Neville's heart hitched in his throat. "Hannah, I'm coming in," he yelled more urgently, and after a prolonged silence, he unlocked the door with his wand and opened it slowly.

Lit wand held aloft, Neville stepped quietly into the dark room, waiting on elevated nerves for the slightest movement. He jumped when he heard sobs again, coming from his right. He groped his way along the wall, feeling as though his pounding heart would surely give him away. When he turned the corner, a bright doorway stood illuminated off the hall, and he could hear somebody struggling to breathe. He gathered up his Gryffindor courage and strode boldly through the doorframe, all at once relieved and concerned to see Hannah balled up tightly on the floor of her kitchen, rocking and hyperventilating. A broken vase lay on the floor beside her, and her wand was abandoned several feet away.

Neville stood over her, murmuring soothingly and casting several spells to reveal other lifeforms in the apartment. Finding no one, and after quickly locking all the doors and windows in his vision, he dropped to his knees next to her, unable to ignore his treatment of her any longer. As a last minute thought, he sent his lion patronus barreling down the hall, thinking that at least Harry could check for intruders.

"Hannah," he said gently, keeping one hand on the pulse in her wrist and finding it alarmingly fast. She shuddered, eyes pressed tightly closed and breathing sounding labored, uneven. She was trembling and covered in sweat. Neville placed his other hand gently to her face, pushing some of her blonde hair off of it. "Hannah, listen to me, you need to breathe."

She drew in a great rattling breath before it hitched and seemed to speed up again. She resumed her rocking on the floor, still curled up in a ball.

"Ok," Neville said to himself, then grabbed her other hand in his so that he was holding both of hers. He was unwilling to touch her anymore, afraid of both overstepping boundaries and worsening her current state. "Hannah, I know you can hear me. Try to think of three things that were in your common room at Hogwarts." She whimpered, but he kept talking. "Professor Sprout told me of a few. She said there are always plants hanging from the ceilings, so that one. I'm guessing you had yellow armchairs, like how we had red furniture, so that's two. What's a third thing, Hannah?" He spoke gently, rubbing his thumbs on the back of her hands.

Her breathing slowed down a hair and she opened her eyes. "Dandelions," she whispered. "Out the windows."

"Lovely," Neville soothed, hearing Harry and Ron enter the apartment and hoping they had the sense to keep their distance. "Hannah, can you tell me three things that you can see right now?"

She nodded slightly, eyes darting around. "Tiles, on the floor." She took a breath. "And the dark wood of the cabinets." Breathing much more easily, she shifted her weight to sit up slightly, never releasing Neville's hands. "You," she whispered, locking her gaze on his.

"Great," Neville said, his voice breaking slightly. "Last thing, Hannah, can you tell me three things you feel?"

"Water on my dress," she smiled faintly, and he noticed that indeed, she'd been laying in the spill from the broken vase. Her breathing and voice were significantly stronger now. "This hand," she squeezed his right. "And this hand," she squeezed his left.

"Perfect," he whispered back. He withdrew one hand from hers and placed it gently on her face again, wiping away some of the sweat and pushing the hair to see her eyes. Her pupils were still quite dilated, but her pulse, which he'd casually returned his grip to, was significantly slower. "Can you stand?" He asked her, and she nodded.

He'd just helped her to her feet when Harry's voice carried into the room, softly. "All clear, mate. There's no one here."

"Thank you, Harry," Neville said, turning around. "But I don't think there ever was." Ron appeared in the doorframe as well, taking in the view quickly and nodding. "Can you two wait for us downstairs?" Neville asked. "Tell the patrons we'll be right down."

"You got it," Ron called, and they exited quickly.

Neville turned back to Hannah, who was now avoiding his gaze. "How long have you been having panic attacks?" He asked her. She stood silently, two tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. "Hey," he reached for her hand again, holding it gently before he even realized he was doing it. He stared at their entwined fingers, then looked up into her watery eyes. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he informed her quietly. "And it's definitely something we can help you manage."

"I had it under control after the war," she said softly. "But once I bought this place, it was so overwhelming, I didn't want to admit it…" More tears escaped.

"Let's get you cleaned up, and down to your customers right now, ok?" Neville pulled her gently, and she nodded, walking with him into the hallway. "We can set up an appointment with me personally for next week, alright?"

She nodded and gave him a watery smile, before going into the bathroom on her to own to get cleaned up. Neville leaned against the wall in the hallway, sighing and looking up into the ceiling.

* * *

"You're late," the nasally voice cut through the darkness of the fourth floor at St. Mungo's.

"S-sorry, ma'am," Gerard winced, pulling his magenta robes around himself tighter. "I h-had to pretend to leave when m-my shift ended and-"

"Quiet." Gerard stopped talking immediately, biting his lip. The cloaked form in front of him seemed to grow larger, although he couldn't see their face. "What's the update on the Longbottoms?"

Gerard shifted his weight to his other leg, bouncing nervously. "They ap-ppear to be g-getting more coherent every d-day, ma'am." He hesitated, then continued. "Alice t-tried to write your n-name, I think."

"We'll have to do something about that, won't we?" The voice echoed ominously around the empty ward.

"W-what about my b-brothers?" Gerard inquired, his voice wavering.

"As long as you do what I ask," the nasally tone said cooly, "then I see no reason why they can't remain safely at Hogwarts."

"Y- yes ma'am." Gerard hung his head, "I'll d-do what I c-can." The cloaked shadow disappeared, its heavy presence leaving with it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this concept for a while, but I wasn't exactly sure how it was going to look upon execution. It's definitely a bit different than the other chapters, but I think it all works just the same. Let me know your thoughts, and thanks for reading!

**Ron**

**Thursday, 7:00 pm, HOUR ZERO**

"Good evening," Ron said politely, stepping into the lift. The only other person in it was Hermione, and as she was intently reading a file and sipping on a takeaway cup, he wasn't even sure she'd noticed him. It was finally time to go home, and Ron felt exhausted. He'd covered for Healer Strout in the long term ward last night so that she could spend time with her daughter, who was in town visiting, and then he'd worked his normal shift directly after. Almost 24 hours straight at St Mungos, and he was ready to go to bed. The lift tinkled merrily as he asked for the main floor, tiredly watching the doors close in front of him.

Halfway into their descent, he noticed something was wrong. The lift seemed to have come to a stop between floors, and the doors were lit up with a red light around their perimeter. He felt his heart sinking.

"Oh shite," he muttered, pulling out his wand and tapping on the door three times. Blue sparks emitted from the end, and he let out a deep frustrated sigh. "Today of all fucking days," he leaned his head against the cool metal of the lift, closing his eyes. The wall at the back of the space groaned, then pushed backwards by several meters, expanding the lift slightly. A small door appeared as though to lead into a tiny cubicle created by the wall.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione's voice, more high pitched than usual, cut across him. Ron glanced over his shoulder, taking in her concerned face and tense form.

"Quarantine," he grunted, his mind racing.

She was silent for several moments. "I know I read those procedures once when I started," she spoke hesitantly. "Can you remind me?"

Ron turned his body to lean his back against the wall, keeping her in his view. "Quarantine at St Mungo's is magically triggered by a positive test result for an infectious disease. It automatically locks every door to create as many pockets of isolated inhabitants as possible."

"Let me guess," Hermione said dryly. "That includes the lifts?" Although Ron suspected she'd already worked out the answer, he nodded. "Can we tell which disease it is?" She asked.

"The blue sparks from my wand just now indicated that it's not deadly," Ron answered.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good, right?"

"Yeah," Ron said mildly, rubbing a hand through his hair. "But it could still be something like Cerebrumous Spattergroit, which is highly contagious and causes severe memory loss. We don't want everyone in the hospital to forget what they're supposed to be doing."

"I could see that being problematic, yes," she admitted. "So how long will we be here?"

Ron met her gaze, trying to gauge the best way to break the news. She returned his look defiantly. Hermione liked to understand details, he decided, so that's how he'd explain. "When the lockdown is triggered, the first step is to elect the highest ranked member of staff on the ground floor as the Head of Operations. It'll probably take them a couple hours to inventory where all the staff is and what the emergency chain of command looks like."

"Ok," she drew the word out a bit, chewing on her lip.

"After that, they'll gather information on what triggered the quarantine spell and isolate the disease in the hospital. They'll try to figure out who might have been exposed." Hermione watched him silently, expression grave. He kept talking. "They are supposed to manage the headcounts in each isolated space. Every person in a unique quarantine area must be cleared of the disease before the local anti apparition wards are lifted, then they are removed from the hospital or relocated to other areas."

"What do you mean?" She asked. "What areas?"

"A couple different ones," Ron told her, ticking off on his fingers. "One for anyone who tests positive to the disease, another for anyone who may have been exposed. If they're smart, they'll create a third space for people who test negative to the disease but still need medical help for the conditions that brought them here to begin with. People will need to be shuttled around as various areas are closed and reopened. It's a challenge in logistics."

"Ok," Hermione said bracingly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Ok, so you and I, I assume we are our own quarantine area, right?" He nodded. "It won't be too long before they're able to test us and.." She trailed off as he shook his head. "It will be too long?" She eyed him nervously. "What's the catch? What are you not telling me?"

"I'll be honest with you," Ron sighed. "The lifts will be the last priority. It's more important to gain access to the functioning medical bays."

"Even for the head of the hospital?" She asked incredulously.

"Unless they can contact trace the disease back to either of us specifically," Ron told her seriously. "We're going to be here for a while."

Hermione mulled on this, her expression growing increasingly resigned. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing to the tiny door that had been formed several minutes ago. "So that's what? A bathroom?" He nodded again. She gulped, seeming to brace herself before asking, "how long?"

"At least twelve hours. Probably closer to twenty. The longest one on record went for five days." Her eyes widened in shock. "They'll check in on us at some point for the headcount and to make sure no one in here needs life threatening attention. Otherwise they'll work out a way to send us food every six hours or so."

"But, I have so much to do," she held up her small stack of files, and Ron could see the panic setting in. "It's all in my office, all the documents, and my notes..."

"Surely it's not more important than a quarantine?" He raised his eyebrows.

She opened her mouth to retaliate, but then closed it again, shaking her head and looking abashed. "No… no, of course not."

* * *

**Hermione**

**Thursday, 10:00 pm, HOUR THREE**

Hermione had conjured two overstuffed recliners for them, as that was all they could fit into the cramped space of the lift. They hadn't spoken much more since the lockdown started. Hermione, having long since read through the papers she'd brought with her, watched idly as Ron dozed in his chair. He must have been tired, she thought, listening to his faint snores. He'd pulled off the green healer robes, lounging in the plain white t-shirt and jeans he'd been wearing underneath. His face looked more peaceful now that it usually did, like he'd temporarily set down the weight he carried around. She admired the profile of his long nose and square jaw line, before telling herself to turn away, thankful he hadn't caught her staring.

A crackling noise filled the lift space, making Hermione jump. "Roll call," a woman's voice spoke, rousing Ron from his sleep. "Please state your name and position."

"Hermione Granger," she spoke clearly. "Director of St Mungo's."

"Ron Weasley, Fourth Floor Senior Healer." His voice sounded sleepy, and Hermione snuck a look at him as he rubbed his eyes.

"Hermione, Ron," the woman exclaimed. "Glad we finally found you two."

"Summer?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, it's me," she replied. "We were worried when neither of you were accounted for during the fourth floor inventory."

"What's the status?" Hermione cut in.

"Unknown," she sounded serious, even through the muffled magical connection. "We're treating the infection very cautiously. I'm sorry to say, but we're in it for the long haul."

"Can we help?" Ron called.

"Luckily, or unluckily depending on your perspective, we have two disease specialists quarantined on the second floor, and Neville is on the fourth with his herb garden. Hopefully between the teams we can figure it out. You two just hang tight. We'll send food as soon as we've set up the proper spells."

"Thanks Summer," Hermione said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

The magical line went dead. Ron and Hermione stared at each other for a long time.

* * *

**Ron**

**Friday, 2:00 am, HOUR SEVEN**

Ron laid awake, looking up at nothing. They'd both agreed to try to get some sleep, given the late hour, but even in the dark he knew that Hermione was as restless as he.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked, speaking into the black.

She let out a long, deep breath. "No."

He smiled, the bluntness of her answer endearing her to him. "Care to elaborate?"

"Aside from being worried about the state of the hospital I am allegedly in charge of and unable to do anything about?" Her voice cut sharply through the darkness, causing Ron to grin even more for some reason. He was quite thankful she couldn't see him.

"Yeah, aside from that," he responded, trying to keep the mirth out of his voice. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

She released more restless sighs, seeming to toss and turn in the armchair. After several minutes she muttered a frustrated, "fine." He waited patiently. "I know it's not more important than the quarantine," she punctuated the echo of his words from earlier in the evening. "But I am very stressed about my 30 day recommendation to the Board, and it's frustrating to be stuck in this Merlin forsaken lift instead of in my office working. I also cannot sleep," Ron heard the unmistakable sounds of her punching the pillows between every word. "In this bloody armchair."

"Hermione, I'm shocked," he told her, unable to resist teasing her any longer. "Such language."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, and he let out a full laugh, pleased to hear her giggle a bit as well.

"Well let's fix one thing at a time," he said, lighting his wand tip and standing up. He could see her faint outline in the soft lighting and offered her his hand. "C'mon, up you go," he encouraged, and she allowed him to pull her to her feet. He waved his wand to vanish the chairs, and replaced them with the biggest bed he could fit in their limited space.

Hermione turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. He raised his hands in innocence. "You stay on your half, I'll stay on mine," he told her, toeing off his shoes and climbing into the bed. Hermione tsked, crossing her arms and stalling at the foot of the it, while Ron lied flat on his back, sighing in comfort. "This is much better."

"This is wildly assuming of you," she complained half-heartedly.

"Listen," Ron propped himself up on one arm. "I worked a 24 hour shift before we got stuck in here. 24 hours straight, Hermione. The only thing I want to do right now, is sleep, I swear." He crossed his heart with his finger to emphasize the point. "I'll stay on top of the covers, if that helps."

She sighed, but he could see her resolve wavering as she looked tiredly over the scene. "You don't have to stay on top of the covers," she said finally, slipping underneath them herself. "But you do have to stay on your half."

"You got it, boss," he said cheekily, deluminating his wand tip.

* * *

**Hermione**

**Friday, 6:00 am, HOUR ELEVEN**

Hermione woke up feeling as though she'd barely rested. She yawned and rolled over, surprised by the weight of something on her stomach. Whatever it was felt warm and cozy, and she sleepily snuggled into it. It took her several long moments to remember where she was, before she sat up in alarm, wrapped up in Ron's large freckled arms. She extracted herself as carefully as she could, praying that she wouldn't rouse him.

As soon as she'd moved back a respectable distance, she stared straight up at the now illuminated ceiling, trying to slow her heart rate. It'd been awhile since she'd been held like that, even if it was unintentional. She vaguely recognized Ron stirring into consciousness beside her.

"Mo-morning," he said, yawning and stretching his arms over his head.

"Erm, morning," she returned, awkward at the idea of pillow talk. Ron, obviously feeling quite the opposite, rolled onto his side and propped his head up under his arm, watching her.

"Were we just… cuddling?" He asked her, his blue eyes pinning her in place.

"Maybe a bit," Hermione answered, keeping her tone as lofty as she could. "I barely noticed."

"Right," he chuckled.

"Since, we're both up," she exclaimed, standing and gesturing for him to do the same. He slowly rolled out of bed, and as soon as he was clear of it, she replaced the bed with the two armchairs again. She quickly transfigured the pant suit she was wearing into a loose sweater and leggings, shrugging at Ron's expression. "It's not technically any cleaner, but at least it's more comfortable."

"Good idea," he replied, changing his own jeans into sweatpants.

"I wish I had my work," she reflected, trying to pace in the small area available to her.

"Guess we'll have to find some other way to pass the time," Ron replied, sinking into one of the armchairs. "Anything but cuddling, I suppose?"

"You're damn right," she retorted, and from the corner of her eye, she could see that he was smirking again.

* * *

**Ron**

**Friday, 10:00 am, HOUR FIFTEEN**

"Are you mental?" Ron shouted, pulling on his hair in frustration.

"You don't get to have opinions like that, Ron," Hermione hissed. Without any other space available to them in the cramped lift, they stood toe to toe.

"As a matter of fact, I'm a healer," Ron spat. "It's my PROFESSIONAL opinion that you're mental."

She rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. "Oh, ha ha, very funny."

"You can't just reduce staff like it's not a big deal," Ron told her angrily. "We're already short handed every bloody shift; it's unreasonable to expect us to do more with less."

"You're not short handed," Hermione threw up her arms, exasperated. "You're just inefficient with the hands that you have."

"Inefficient?" He stared at her, incredulous. "How could you possibly know anything about it? What kind of healing did you study again, exactly?" Her flushed face brought thoughts that were remarkably contradictory to their current situation creeping into Ron's brain.

"I don't have to know anything about medicine," Hermione said, rolling her eyes disdainfully. "To be able to see when things aren't up to the proper standard. All I'd need for that is a pair of eyes, as a matter of fact."

"Is that right? So you're comfortable laying people off because they don't meet your arbitrary standards?" Ron was vaguely aware that he was raising his voice again, but he couldn't contain his frustration. "We're talking about people's LIVES, Hermione."

"I know that," she shot back. "I take that extremely seriously, and don't you dare insinuate otherwise." Hermione frowned at him. "You can't make decisions like this with your heart, Ron. That's how businesses fail, and even more people lose jobs, or in this case, access to health care."

They glared at each other, Ron acutely aware of their proximity. He felt his blood rushing in both directions, forcing him to turn and face the wall, speaking in a strangled voice. "I need a break."

She didn't respond, but he heard her move away from him. He placed a hand up on the wall, trying to steady his breathing and thinking of cold showers. Ron wasn't sure how long he stood there, even after getting his hormones and emotions under control. He didn't know how to break the icy silence.

Hermione saved him the trouble. "I do remember, you know." Her voice was soft, a stark contrast to the last words she'd shouted.

"What?" He continued to face the wall, eyes clenched tight.

"That day in the library," Hermione answered. "I didn't at first, I mean, when you asked me about it after that appointment with Kendra. But then…" She paused.

"You remembered?" Ron supplied.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice nearly a whisper.

_____

Ron loosened his Gryffindor tie and shuffled his feet, procrastinating the walk to the library. Join the tutoring program, McGonagall had told him, or risk being kicked off the Quidditch team for his grades. But it wasn't his fault, was it? He tried to study, he really did, but it seemed harder for him than everyone else.

The tutoring program. He stifled a groan. Dean was going to take the mickey. What a loser he was, needing to get help like this. He looked both ways, then slunk into the library and bolted for the designated section tucked into the back corner, hoping no one would see him.

"Ron," he heard a voice exclaim, causing him to groan again.

"Hullo Neville," he said, forcing a smile.

"Here for tutoring?" Neville asked as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder bag, clearly unaware of Ron's discomfort.

"Er, kinda," he shuffled his feet, wondering how long he could avoid the topic. "I-" He was cut off by the brisque appearance of a curly haired Ravenclaw with a shiny Prefect badge.

"Ron Weasley?" She asked, her dark eyes severe over the top of a notebook she was scribbling in. "Professor McGonagall told me to expect you."

"Uh, yeah," he muttered, feeling his ears turn pink and trying to ignore that Neville was still standing there. "Hermione right? We're in the same year."

"Charmed," she replied, sounding anything but. "Right this way, please."

Ron waved a miserable goodbye to Neville and followed his new tutor over to a table. "I'm one of the few students here who have passed the qualifications to help with any subject, except Divination." She frowned. "That's a load of rubbish if you ask me, so if you need help with that, then I'll have to find you someone else." She sat down at the table and gestured for him to sit beside her. She began unpacking books from her bag while she continued to chatter. "I've been the head tutor here for a few months, so Professor McGonagall doesn't usually ask me to help one on one anymore. She does have a weak spot for Quidditch though, so you must be a good Keeper if she wants to keep you on her team so badly. Now," she turned to look at him, tracing the feather of her quill faintly over her lips. "What is it you need help with?"

"Oh, am I allowed to talk?" Ron asked grumpily, annoyed at having to be there at all, let alone steamrollered by this girl. She glared at him, strumming her fingers impatiently. "Fine," he sighed. "Er- I guess my worst subjects are Transfiguration and Potions."

"Splendid," she reached for the appropriate books and gestured to his bag. "Get out your homework and we can start by going over the Transfiguration essay for this week."

He felt the dread settle in his stomach like a weight, then slowly dug in his bag to extract the half finished essay, ignoring the impatient strumming of her fingers again. He handed it to her like an inmate facing his life sentence, slouched in his seat, staring resolutely forward.

"Your spelling is atrocious," she informed him, tapping her wand on the parchment to revise the mistakes. She missed the scowl he threw her way. "Your content isn't half bad, but you've misunderstood the last exception to Gamp's Law. Page 394," she said pushing the book towards him. "Last paragraph. Why don't you read it aloud, then we can discuss?" She tucked her unruly curls behind her ears and turned her deep brown eyes on him expectantly.

With the sudden eye contact he felt his pulse quicken, mismatched to the sense of dread that remained. He slowly opened the book to the correct page. "You do it," he said, thrusting it back to her. "I- ah- get nervous with reading."

"Nonsense," she pushed back. "Reading it out loud will help you retain the information. Go on, it'll only take a moment."

He stared at the book again, feeling completely dejected. He wanted to storm out and leave, but he also didn't want to draw attention to himself, and he really didn't want to be kicked off the Quidditch team. "I can't," he said, staring straight forward and somehow slouching further in his chair.

She stared at him for a beat. "You can't read?"

"No, of course I can read," he glowered, feeling his ears turn red. "I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say you were," Hermione answered in an unusually gentle voice. His eyes snapped to hers in surprise, and he took a gulp.

"It just takes me longer," he explained through a clenched jaw. "And I don't like doing it where people can hear me."

"Can you tell me why?" She asked, leaning her cheek on her fist and fixing him with an intense gaze. "Why do you think it takes you longer?"

"I dunno," he muttered, shrugging and avoiding her eyes, which he could feel raking over his face. "The letters don't always stay put right away."

"Hmm," she absently traced her fingers along the letters of the heading on the open book. "Sounds like dyslexia maybe."

"And what's that then?" He asked, feeling aggressive.

"A muggle learning disorder," Hermione answered absently, still lost in her thoughts.

"I don't have a disorder." Ron sat up in his seat and nearly shouted, facing flushing red.

"I know, I know," she held up her hands defensively. "It doesn't mean you're stupid- and for the record I don't think you are. In fact, if you are dyslexic and you still manage to have the grades that you do, I'd say that you're quite bright."

Ron felt his ears turning red again, this time for a much different reason.

_____

"You remembered?" Ron supplied.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice nearly a whisper.

Ron finally turned around, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his broad frame against the lift wall. "Glad to see I made an impression," he grunted.

"I'd honestly forgotten I'd said anything like that." Hermione was perched on the arm of the chair, wringing her hands. She gave him a tentative smile.

"I didn't," Ron replied, shrugging one shoulder. "I ah- I actually talked my mum into taking me to a muggle specialist that summer."

Hermione's face lit up in interest, her mouth dropping slightly open. "Really?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Once I'd learned more about it, dyslexia became much easier to manage. In fact," he glanced at her, "that's really what got me started down this path."

"What path?" She asked, wrinkling her nose.

"This. All of it," he held his hands out, gesturing broadly in front of him. "Muggle university, learning about mental health and disorders, trying to help wizards of all ages, becoming a healer. All of it. It's all something I found an interest in because a girl mentioned dyslexia to me when I was sixteen. And now," he gave her a fleeting smile. "It seems that she barely recalls it."

"I tutored a lot of students," she exclaimed, sliding back fully into the chair, leaving her legs dangling on the arm. "You'll excuse me if I don't remember all the details of one bloke who I met for an hour a week in the second term of sixth year."

Ron grinned despite himself, genuinely confused how she could make him feel so many emotions so quickly.

* * *

**Hermione**

**Friday, 1:00 pm, HOUR EIGHTEEN**

"What's your family like?" Hermione asked Ron as they sat at the small kitchen table and chairs she'd conjured, eating the simple sandwiches that had been sent to them. She'd long since piled her hair on top of her head in a messy bun, and her loose sweater hung off one shoulder.

"Big," Ron answered around the food in his mouth. "I don't even mean just my siblings, mind you. Weasleys we have this tendency to, I dunno, adopt people."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, using her wand to fill up her water glass and watching him intently. She was fascinated by his happiness just now, a look she'd never quite seen on his face before.

"Harry's technically an in-law now I suppose," Ron contemplated. "But even if he hadn't married Ginny, we'd consider him family. Neville comes round to dinners most Sundays." Ron grabbed a handful of grapes, popping them one at a time into his mouth thoughtfully. "George's friend Lee Jordan joins us quite often as well. My sister-in-law's sister, Gabrielle, is living at the Burrow right now, actually. She just moved here from France and needed somewhere to stay for a while, until she can get her own place."

"Wow," Hermione replied, feeling nearly jealous. "That sounds wonderful."

"Does it?" Ron asked her, looking surprised.

"Definitely," she nodded enthusiastically, picking at the crust of her sandwich. "My family is so small. Just my parents and I, really. Don't get me wrong, they're lovely. I just always wished I had more."

"I wished I had less when I was growing up," Ron admitted, then he laughed. "That sounds awful, doesn't it? That's not really what I mean."

"I'm sure it's easy to feel lost, with so many people," Hermione mused.

"Exactly," he flashed a crooked, grateful smile at her. "But I wouldn't trade the lot. They're everything to me," he added protectively. As he rambled on about his family, Hermione found herself almost wishing she could be counted among their number.

* * *

**Ron**

**Friday, 3:00 pm, HOUR TWENTY**

The clock that always hung in the lift seemed so much louder now, Ron thought. The ticking sound filled the awkward space between them. They'd gotten into it again, this time over some of Hermione's ideas to defund various programs within the hospital. Ron would have stormed out if he could, but instead they were trapped together in this lift. He sat in the chair, staring at the wall wordlessly, trying to get his thoughts and feelings under control.

He snuck a glance at Hermione, who was pacing again, only managing to take a couple steps before having to turn around. She was strong willed, he'd give her that. She'd broken the stoney silence the last time they'd argued, so he supposed the least he could do was return the favor.

He sat upright in the chair and stuck out a leg, blocking her tiny track. She stopped walking and settled for glaring at him. "I'm not saying I agree with you," Ron told her flatly. "But I will apologise for the fact that we keep shouting at each other about it." She huffed, and he took a deep breath, willing himself to keep his voice level. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

She glowered at him a moment more, then put her hands over her face and groaned. "Ugh, I'm sorry too, Ron." She threw herself into the other chair. "This job just has me so stressed out."

"It's a big job," he answered, albeit a bit begrudgingly.

They sat in companionable silence until she spoke up again, "I think I owe you another apology, as well."

"You do?" Ron asked, surprised.

Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Neville told me that you were off the clock on my first day here."

"Oh, you mean the first time you yelled at me?" He asked her, his smile teasing.

"Visiting sick patients on your day off is very admirable," Hermione powered through, ignoring his cheek. "I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions, and confronted you in front of everyone."

"I-ah-" Ron shifted, then relaxed into his seat. "That's very nice, Hermione. Thank you."

* * *

**Hermione**

**Friday, 6:00 pm, HOUR TWENTY-THREE**

"Ok, I got it," Ron grinned at her. The lift was empty now, except for a small Quidditch hoop floating in a corner. "Over the head," he turned around, "eyes closed," he dramatically put his hand over his eyes, "left handed." Ron tossed a miniature quaffle blindly over his shoulder, missing by miles.

Hermione doubled over with laughter, nearly skipping to retrieve the ball from the ground. "Not even close, she exclaimed gleefully, looking around for her next shot. "How about," she picked her spot and aimed carefully. "Bounce off the far wall." She threw the ball, shocked when it bounced and soared through the small golden hoop.

Ron whooped his excitement and she threw her hands up, cheering. He swept her up in a hug that lifted her feet off the ground, before setting her down quickly, ears adorably pink. She was so close to him, she could see the grey starbursts around the pupils of his eyes. She cleared her throat and took a step back. "Your turn," Hermione grinned. Ron jumped to action, getting the ball and going to stand in the same spot.

"Alright, one, two.." He shot the ball which bounced off the wall and missed by inches.

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed. "You get a G."

"Oi, don't look so smug," he told her. "I'm only at HIPPOG; there's still four letters to go."

"Get to shooting, then," she smirked at him.

* * *

**Ron**

**Friday, 9:00 pm, HOUR TWENTY-SIX**

"Are you two ready to get out of there?" Summer's voice echoed around the lift, where Ron and Hermione had been laying on a blanket, watching magical stars (a neat little spell of Hermione's) shooting across the dark ceiling.

"Yes, please," Hermione said, sitting up quickly and waving her wand to remove the star spell. They scrambled to their feet, and Ron scooped his healer's robes from the corner where they'd been laying.

"We've isolated the disease," Summer told them as they transfigured their clothes back to normal. "We're fairly certain neither of you came into contact with it, but we're going to test you before you leave, just in case."

Hermione met Ron's eye, looking relieved. He smiled at her encouragingly. "What was it?" Ron asked aloud.

"A magical bug," Summer answered. "Closely related to another strain we're familiar with. We'll have a cure pretty quickly."

"Could have been much worse," Hermione breathed.

"Definitely," Ron agreed.

"The lift will move down to the main floor shortly," Summer told them. "Just follow the orders of the healers waiting for you, and we'll have you out in a jif."

"Thank you, Summer," Ron called.

"Stand by," she answered, and the magical line went dead.

As they waited for the lift to move, now both standing and facing the doors, Ron snuck a glance down at Hermione, who was trying in vain to smooth out her hair.

"You look great," he soothed, and she smiled faintly.

"How do you feel," Hermione said abruptly, "about helping me with my proposal to the Board?"

"Wh- what?" Ron sputtered, turning to look at her.

"I mean it," she met his eye. "I could use an insider's help, and you're clearly not shy about giving me your honest opinions."

"Let me get this straight," Ron gaped at her. "You want to sign up for MORE of this?" He gestured between them incredulously. "On purpose?"

Hermione turned to look straight forward as the lift opened, squaring her shoulders. "Yes." She stepped out into the light and fresh air of the ground floor.

Ron watched her leave, shaking his head in disbelief, a grin tugging at his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! Diving full force back into this fic now, so please let me know if you like it! Quick disclaimer, this chapter mildly explores PTSD, psychosis, and anxiety.

"The Director denied my request to hire more nurses." Russell dumped a pile of documents down on the nurse's station counter, collapsing dramatically in a chair. "I'm swamped with trying to keep the schedule and assignments sorted. We need help."

Ron leaned against the table, viewing the head nurse sympathetically. "I'm sorry Russell," he consoled. They were working the night shift, which meant that while they didn't have any appointments, the staffing was significantly reduced. Russell was an older man who'd been head nurse on the fourth floor for several years now. He sat with his head in his hands, rubbing them over his salt-n-pepper hair. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Talk to the Director for me? Get her to lift the hiring freeze?" Russell moaned.

"Wish I could," Ron replied, more vehemently than he really felt. "The hiring freeze was our compromise in lieu of layoffs. These last couple weeks she's also denied all my requests for new equipment. The wait time for the magical MRI is so backed up, we're scheduling appointments six weeks out."

After their time together in the quarantined lift, Ron had met with Hermione twice to go over her proposed solutions to the hospital's financial situation. He'd disagreed with all of them. The hours they'd spend locked in rather heated discussions had resulted in a few well placed compromises to tide St Mungo's over to the 30 day review. One of those compromises was the hiring freeze.

"It's so unfair," Russell whined, moaning again.

Ron fought the urge to roll his eyes. He liked to complain about Hermione as much as the next person, but Russell could be a touch dramatic. Besides, he was beginning to appreciate the truly difficult position into which Hermione had been thrust. She took the role to heart, pouring herself into gathering accurate data to make informed decisions. He actually liked that she never accepted information at face value. She asked tough questions and got all the inputs she needed before forming opinions. Sure, she might lack a certain amount of, well, tact, but Ron had hardly been accused of being the most polite person in the world. It was refreshing to openly discuss topics with her, and know that what she said and how she said it was exactly in line with her feelings. When he responded to her with similar pellucidity, she seemed to mirror his appreciation of their candor, never reading more into a comment than he meant it to be.

All this was not to say that they saw eye to eye on everything, for they most certainly did not, but they'd managed to not let their discussions degrade into shouting matches, despite the high stakes. Hermione's eyes lit up when she argued a topic she was particularly passionate about, and she nearly always fussed with her hair. Ron distinctly remembered a few solid seconds of complete distraction, when, the last time they'd been locked in a debate, she'd piled her hair on top of her head abruptly, exposing the graceful curve of her neck in the soft lighting of her office.

"What're you smiling about?" Russell asked him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Er- nothing. I'll just go make the rounds, shall I?" Ron responded, feeling his ears warm. Ignoring Russell's look of confusion, he tapped the counter a couple times nervously then left to check on the various inhabitants of the ward. Ron found the first several patients sleeping safely. He checked vital signs and read the monitoring equipment, marking it all down in the patient charts.

When he'd first started working at St Mungo's, he'd been quite slow at these types of tasks. Even though he'd learned some tips and tricks for managing his dyslexia, it'd taken him a while to get acclimated. He was better at reading in general now than he was when he was younger, and over the last few years he'd memorized the words that were essential for his day to day tasks. The nurses in the fourth ward, once they'd realized that Ron had been enchanting the documents to change the fonts and using a series of symbols to indicate stats, had been quick to adopt his methods. The first time he'd picked up a chart that he'd never touched before and seen it formatted to suit his needs, he'd had to step away and pretend to cough in order to cover the tears in his eyes. Beth, who'd been helping him at the time, had thankfully only smirked and pretended not to notice. It warmed his heart that his team had adapted to help without him asking, and it was part of the reason he would fight tooth and nail to keep them all on staff.

As Ron approached the fourth bed of his rounds, he found its occupant lying wide awake, staring quietly at the ceiling, the low lighting making his eyes look glassy and reflective. The man had long, wild hair and tangled beard to match. He exuded a strong smell of body odor, and his skin appeared cracked and dried. It was easy to see the bones in his elbow and shoulder joints, indicating that the man was malnourished and underfed, although Ron suspected he was of a naturally small stature. Upon closer inspection, Ron could see that his hands were restrained to the sides of the bed.

Ron picked up the chart and flipped through the file. Male, mid 20s, arrived several hours ago when a hospital worker found him wandering near the hospital entrance, yelling loudly at street lamps and attracting the attention of muggles. This was unfortunate, as his hallucinations seem to have caused the side effect of fireworks exploding from his fingertips. He'd quickly been stunned and admitted to St Mungo's, where he spent the afternoon shuttling around departments before being left up here in the fourth ward for the night shift.

Ron felt frustration boil as he read the case history. He knew that he and Neville had gained reputations as the healers who accepted all the unexplainable headcases no one else wanted. Some days he was proud of that, but some days it exhausted him to this core. And this time, he reflected sourly, it'd led to subpar treatment for this patient.

"John Doe," Ron said softly, pushing away his irritation and watching the prone form for a reaction. "Still awake? What brings you in today?"

The man grunted then began to squirm, speaking in a rather higher pitched voice than Ron expected. "I'd tell you, but these bloody things are keeping me tied down."

"I know, they're awful," Ron consoled, placing both hands on the bedframe and leaning forward slightly to see the man's scraggly face better. "But they help us keep you safe."

"Keep me safe?" The man scoffed. "Don't kid yourself, I know I was scaring everyone."

Ron perched himself on the tall stool near the foot of the bed, examining the patient thoughtfully. "You were rather, out of sorts earlier, I'm told," he admitted. "Do you hallucinate often?" The man stayed silent, jaw set and staring up at the ceiling. "I want to help you," Ron pleaded. "If I undo your binding, will you talk?"

The man blinked several times before muttering disdainfully. "You'd risk letting a crazy, homeless man run free."

Ron chuckled, waving his wand. "You're too self aware to be truly crazy. And I've just set a boundary so that if you are more than a few steps from your bed, it'll trip an alarm."

"What if I made a break for it anyways?" The man asked defiantly.

"You could try," Ron replied lightly. "But you should know we have security measures built into every ward on every floor and staff on hand to assist with these types of situations. I doubt you'd make it out before being stunned again." The man clicked his tongue and refused eye contact with Ron, who sighed and stood up. "I'd really love to help you," he repeated, turning to leave the examination area.

"Wait," the man's tenor voice rang out. "I'll do it. Just get me out of these bloody things."

Pleased, Ron resumed his seat then waved his wand to remove the magical bindings. The man sat up experimentally, rubbing his wrists and leaning back against the bed frame, looking around. Ron waited patiently as the man drank some of the water perched on his bedside table, before, seemingly unable to find any other way to procrastinate, he finally made eye contact.

"Do you hallucinate often?" Ron repeated his question.

"Only when I'm riding the serpent," the man said boldly.

Ron, who'd been expecting an evasive answer like this, shook his head immediately. "There are no traces of cinis sinuovum in your system currently, nor can we detect any past usage." The man stared at him blankly. "You aren't abusing the Ashwinder drug." Ron explained, and flipped open the chart again, staring at the symbols etched down the side of the toxicology report. "In fact, the only substance you appear to frequently use is over the counter- the Calming Draught." He frowned at the man as he snapped the file shut, rubbing at his beard. "I suppose now isn't the time to remind you that overuse of that potion can lead to liver failure?"

"Can't say I'd mind," the man shrugged one shoulder. "S'not the worst way to go."

Ron's frown deepened. He decided to go a different route. "You're clearly magical," he probed, surveying the man's reaction. "Where's your wand? The staff didn't find one on your person."

"I gave it up," the man answered firmly, glaring at Ron, daring him to argue. Ron thought there was something almost familiar about his eyes, when he was able to fully look into them.

"You… gave it up," Ron repeated dumbly, unable to fully process the answer. "Gave what up? Your wand?"

"Magic." The man spat the word as though it burned him.

Ron opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again when no words came. There was a time in his life when he would have reacted to a statement like this either with violent disbelief or extreme sarcasm, but Ron had learned, sometimes the hard way, when and how to consider his words and behaviors more carefully.

"And why," he finally ventured slowly, watching the man, "did you do that?"

"Nothing good comes of it."

"Meaning, that magic has brought you bad things?" Ron asked, and the man's eyes flicked over to his before he nodded jerkily. The movement was again achingly familiar. "Did you study at Hogwarts?" Ron asked. The man visibly flinched, and Ron felt his heart sink rapidly. "Were you… were you at the final battle?" His voice was nearly a whisper at this point, as Ron felt he simultaneously needed the answer and didn't want to know it.

Two tears fell freely down the man's dirty, scaly cheeks, the only outward sign of his feelings. "No." His tenor voice cracked. "My brother was. He's dead."

"I'm so sorry," Ron said.

"We'd been on the run," the man croaked. "Muggle borns, see? We'd found our parents murdered by Death Eaters, and we'd gone into hiding. I was heartbroken, but at least I had Colin." The name struck a heavy chord with Ron, who sat in stunned silence, unable to speak. "Then he got the message to go to Hogwarts for the fight and he couldn't… he had to-" The man looked away from Ron, his voice getting higher. "Colin insisted that I stay behind and wait for him. We were both underage. He said he'd come back for me." Ron inspected him with a fresh perspective. If the man's hair was shorter and his face was clean shaven…

"Dennis?" Ron barely managed to breath the word, knowing its truth before the man in the bed eyed him suspiciously, eyes nearly glazed over.

"Who are you, how do you know that name?" The man-Dennis- was instantly angry, shouting and jumping out of the bed. "I won't go without a fight!"

"Easy," Ron soothed, leaping out of his stool and attempting to subdue him. Dennis thrashed around wildly, and although Ron was able to restrain his small body relatively easily, he called for help from Russell. Together, they tranquilized Dennis again and placed him back under restraint in the bed.

With every fight and binding of Dennis' limbs, Ron felt his blood boiling hotter. Was this really the best the wizarding world could do for its muggle borns and veterans, unwillingly dragged into war? "Enough is enough," Ron vented aloud, ignoring Russell as he jumped from the unexpected proclamation. Without another word, Ron stomped out of the ward and descended to the main floor, nearly jogging in his anger to Hermione's office. He knew she wasn't there, given the late hour, but he planned on leaving a strongly worded note on her desk. It wasn't going to fix Dennis, but it would certainly make him feel marginally better about the situation.

He pushed the door to Hermione's office open with so much force that it hit the wall loudly, then paused in astonishment when he heard a tiny shriek. Hermione was sitting behind her desk, holding a large binder in her hands and staring at him in complete shock. She was still dressed from the previous day, although she'd pulled off her blazer, and was wearing a pale blue camisole that revealed rather more skin than he'd been expecting.

"What are you doing here?" Ron asked, temporarily distracted from his task. "It's two in the morning."

"It's my office," she snapped back. "Care to explain why you burst in without so much as a knock?"

"Yeah, I do." Ron adjusted his weight so he was standing on both legs evenly, then crossed his arms over his chest. "I feel someone ought to inform you of the serious lapses in medical support that we're offering here." She opened her mouth to answer, but Ron raised his voice and pushed on. "I have Dennis Creevy in my ward tonight." This made Hermione shut her mouth, and she cocked her head to the side, eyes never leaving his face. "That's right," Ron continued, feeling vindicated. "Dennis is suffering from undiagnosed psychosis, and despite being unjustly persecuted during the war, he has no support from our Ministry. He was only admitted today because he was a threat to the Statute of Secrecy. They dumped him on the fourth floor without even bothering to find out his name, and since we're on a hiring freeze, I don't have enough staff right now to help him the way he needs." Finished with his rant, Ron waited for her to answer, breathing heavily. A small part of him vaguely recognized that none of this was directly Hermione's fault, and that she probably didn't deserve his furious lecture right now, after what was presumably her own very long day, but he clenched his fists and glared at her nonetheless.

Hermione's eyes flashed, always tellingly animated when she was angry. She stood, and he tensed, bracing for her to yell. Instead, she exited the office, striding briskly by him as though he wasn't there. He blinked a couple times, surprised, then spun on his heel and followed. He kept pace with her, but let her lead, not altogether surprised when she climbed the four flights of stairs to his ward.

"Where?" She asked, once they'd entered the main door, and Ron led her over to Dennis' bed, where he laid in an induced sleep. She surveyed him sadly, fingertips tracing the premature wrinkles on his forehead. Ron watched her in amazement as she murmured quietly. "I knew him in school." Her deep, brown eyes seemed more watery, before she nodded her head in determination. "You wanted help," she informed Ron. "Tell me what to do."

Together, they worked slowly and quietly to clean Dennis up. Ron instructed Hermione as they both manually and with magic were able to cleanse most of the grime and odor off their patient's body. They brushed his teeth and cut his nails. They clothed him in a clean dressing gown, and washed and brushed his hair and beard. It was still too long, but Ron preferred to wait for Dennis' consent in cutting it. Ron examined Dennis' dry skin, and instructed Hermione in how to recognize the worst parts and apply the healing balm. While she worked on that, he cleaned and dressed the mild scrapes and abrasions he could find.

When he was done, Ron sat back and watched Hermione, who'd been largely silent during this exercise, graciously accepting Ron's orders as she gently worked over Dennis. Ron's anger was completely dissipated by the unexpected tenderness in this gesture. Satisfied with her work, she sat down in the chair across the bed from Ron, using a spell to clean the salve off her fingers. She surveyed Dennis worriedly, and in the soft lighting, Ron's traitorous eyes followed the scoop of her collar bone and the irresistible pull down the V of her camisole.

"Will he be ok?" She asked, and he mentally shook himself.

"I don't know," Ron answered honestly. "I wish I could say, but he's very sick, Hermione. He's experiencing visual hallucinations. I think he thought I was a Death Eater earlier."

She shuddered, and when she looked at Ron this time, the expression in her eyes was much different than anger. "I was at the battle, you know."

"Really?" Ron was surprised, both in the news and in her willingness to share it.

"Yes." Hermione looked back at Dennis' sleeping face. "I got the message from Neville, even though I'd been in hiding with my parents. I helped fight most of the night, and I saw when Harry… when he… finished it." Ron was silent, unsure of what to say, and Hermione turned the full depths of her gaze back to meet his. "I'm telling you this," she said, her voice full of emotion. "Because I need you to know that I think you're absolutely right. You're right about the lack of support, you're right about how funds are being prioritized, and you and Neville are unequivocally right in pursuing this goal."

"Thank you," Ron muttered lamely, unable to manage more, overwhelmed by the significance of the moment.

"So please," Hermione bit her lip, and gazed at him imploringly. "Please understand when I tell you, the hospital is in debt." She held up a finger, silencing his protests. "In order to keep offering these services, for the good of the whole community, I have to make hard choices, Ron." Her eyes for the second time that night were watering. "I want us to have the same goal. To clean up our foundation so that we can safely grow. That's why I'm still here, at two in the morning." She gestured around helplessly, and for the first time, Ron noticed just exactly how tired she looked.

"Are you taking care of yourself?" Unable to help it, he walked over to her chair and knelt in front of her, surveying her face closely. "You look exhausted."

"Thanks," she answered wryly.

"Not bad," he murmured. Having gone fully into healer mode, Ron absently tilted her chin up and inspected her features. "Never bad. Just tired."

"I don't have time for sleep," she whispered. With that simple sentence, Ron realized just how close to Hermione he was, kneeling on the floor, nearly between her knees. As if in a trance, his hand, previously resting below her chin, moved to cup her face. He felt drawn to the depths of her brown eyes, their shade so perfect he didn't know how he never realized it before. Hermione gulped, and Ron instinctively ran his thumb over her cheek, searching her gaze for an answer to a question he didn't have the nerve to ask. She cleared her throat and spoke quietly. "I only have ten days before I need to present my recommendations."

Ron blinked and tore his hand away, leaning back on his heels. His head spun at the madness that had seemed to momentarily overtake him. "Go rest," he urged. "Get some sleep before we work on the proposal again. I will, ah-" He glanced at Hermione shyly as he said it. "I'll come with cost cutting ideas, and we can work as late as you want, every night until the deadline."

"Really?" She looked equal parts relieved and disbelieving. "You won't just push back on everything I suggest?"

"Nope." Ron shook his head, trying to ignore how he knew the tips of his ears were turning pink. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair. "I understand you now, Hermione. It's us versus the problem, not you versus me." He hesitated, then grinned at her. "I think we make a good team."

She watched him with an expression that he thought was almost tender, smiling gently. "I'd like that, Ron."

"Go on, then." He stood, helping her to her feet. "Get some sleep. Healer's orders." She squeezed his hand, then turned to leave.

Before she made it to the exit, a loud crash rang through the ward, juxtaposing sharply with the previous calm and quiet of the sleeping hospital. Ron drew his wand and took off for the source, barely registering Hermione as she fell into step beside his frantic jog. Side by side, they sprinted towards the Janus Thickey Ward, where Ron was sure the noise had come from.

He skidded around the corner just as the sound of breaking glass, this time sounding so much closer, echoed around them. Hermione flicked her wrist, causing the door to the ward to slam open, and they sprinted through without ceasing their pace. A loud wail ripped through the air, and Ron followed it easily, feeling his stomach knot as he followed the familiar path to the corner where the Longbottoms lived.

Just as their beds came into view, Ron heard again the shatter of glass, and saw, just in time, a figure shrouded in black disappear through the broken window. He ran to the sill, extending a temporary ward over the area, hoping to trap the intruder in his magic, but saw nothing. The window overlooked the street, and he could see nothing move in the stillness of the night. He cursed and released his ward, turning to inspect the area.

His surroundings were shrouded in a hazy darkness, so he could barely make out the legs of a prostrate form that poked out from behind an overturned armchair. Alice sat crumpled at the edge of her bed, still wailing. Ron went to her and spoke in soothing tones as he eased her back onto her pillows. She slowly quieted, and lay still, but refused to let go of his hand, even as she closed her eyes.

Hermione, who stood by the window and had been muttering spells incoherently, caught his eye and shook her head. "There's no one here. They must have gotten outside our apparition wards."

Ron growled in frustration, although his demeanor with Alice remained gentle. "Give us some light, will you?" Hermione waved her wand towards the lamps, which immediately illuminated. She gasped at the prone body, which Ron was guessing she hadn't noticed before. "Come hold her hand?" Hermione nodded tightly, and replaced Ron's hand with her own in Alice's firm grip.

Ron cautiously circled the armchair, dashing forward as soon as he saw Frank, lying unconscious on the ground. He checked for a pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt it faintly under his finger tips. He levitated the patient onto his own bed, then set about casting the spells to monitor his vital signs. Satisfied that Frank was in stable condition, he magicked the armchair back to its proper position, squatting down next to a broken bottle he hadn't noticed before. The shards of glass were coated in an unfamiliar green substance.

"What is it?" Hermione, who was still perched on Alice's bed, spoke quietly.

Ron pulled a small vial from one of his robe pockets, and carefully collected a sample. He stoppered it, and held it up to the light, examining closely. "I dunno," he answered finally, before he stood and vanished the rest of the mess.

He smiled as he realized that Hermione was still holding Alice's hand, and helped her carefully extract herself. They quietly exited the ward, walking down the hall back towards the main examination areas on the fourth floor.

They stopped by the staircase, and Ron reached out to grip her elbow gently. "Go home. I know you're going to say you can't," he paused to level his gaze at her, as she huffed indignantly. "But I'm on this shift anyways. I'll write the report, deliver the sample to our potioneers, and read out the incident to Neville when he gets here in the morning."

"I'm perfectly capable of-"

Ron shook his head, interrupting her argument. "Just send the incident form up to me, and I'll make sure it's completely filled and on your desk before you get back in tomorrow."

She bit her lip, then deflated a bit, finally looking as tired as Ron imagined she felt. Her eyes welled up with tears again, her exhaustion allowing him to see a layer of vulnerability that she usually kept quite guarded. "Who could have done this?" Her voice gave away her emotions, as she gazed up at him through damp lashes. "To the poor Longbottoms?"

"I don't know," he answered, feeling frustrated and helpless. "All the more reason for you to get some rest. You're no good to us if you're too exhausted, and I'm beginning to think that we need you more than we realize, Hermione."

She gave him a watery smile, whispering her thanks as she uncharacteristically threw her arms around his neck. As quickly as it started, she was gone, springing down the staircase to the main floor. Ron drew in a shuddering breath, enjoying the faint aroma of her lingering perfume, before going back into his ward.

* * *

Neville gripped the pot of his Mimblulus mimbletonia as hard as he dared, watching the plant's gentle movements as though hoping it would hypnotize him. His parents had been attacked by some unknown entity. They'd been attacked and presumably fed some kind of potion, although they didn't have the results back from the potioneering office yet to know for sure what the full implications were.

They'd been attacked. They'd been attacked. He fluctuated between a state of panic and anger as the mantra repeated over and over in his mind.

He'd been in a fine mood when he arrived to work that morning, before being immediately put on edge at the grave expression on Ron's face. He'd heard the news as Ron read it out to him during their typical shift handoff process, not entirely processing the information until the second or third time through.

To his credit, Ron had sprinted after Neville, who'd torn off blindly to see his parents once he realized what had happened. They were still sleeping peacefully, monitoring spells ensuring that their vital signs were healthy. Ron had taken Neville upstairs to get some tea, and they'd sat without speaking during the early morning bustle of the hospital. He appreciated that Ron knew to support him silently, as Neville needed time to think things over on his own.

Once Ron went home, Neville had selfishly reorganized some of his appointments, squeezing them onto other healers or asking the nurses to reschedule. Given that his face was so pale and his hands were so shaky, none of the other staff complained. He'd spent the morning alternating between checking on his parents and standing in his office garden, trying to make sense of the event and find some peace.

"Healer Longbottom."

He glanced to the side and saw Beth, before focusing his attention on the plant again. "Yes?"

"Your 11 o'clock is here." He didn't move, but felt the nurse grab his arms with a gentle force, extracting him from his position and turning him to face her. She snapped a finger in front of his face, and he blinked up at her in surprise. "It's Ms Abbott."

He blinked again a couple of times, then straightened up and adjusted his robes. "Of course, you're right, Beth."

"Always am," she assured him, leading him over to his desk and plopping him down behind it. "I'll give you a couple minutes, then send her in."

"Thank you," he muttered, watching her leave. He drank some water, willing himself to focus on the task at hand.

When Hannah breezed through his office door, his already strung out nerves felt to be on high alert. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold and the wisps of blond hair that had escaped her ponytail framed her face endearingly. Her lips looked soft- too soft- and Neville began to feel real concern that he was not in a stable enough headspace to handle being around such a pretty patient.

"Hi Neville." Her voice sounded nearly melodic as she greeted him and sat in the chair across his desk.

"Hullo Hannah," he answered her automatically, sucking in a deep breath. He flipped open the file distractedly and talked to fill the silence. "The purpose of our consultation today is to go over your treatment options and set up some follow up appointments based on the route you want to take, does that work for you?"

He looked up and caught her kind, hazel eyes watching his every move. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

"We tested you, as you know, to rule out other causes for your symptoms." He was listing off the data rather mechanically, he knew, but it was the best he could manage. "Your thyroid and heart both look great, you're negative for all potential substance abuse, and we have no documented records of other preexisting conditions, either physical or mental."

"That's all good, right?" For the first time, Hannah's smile faltered.

"Yes, it is," Neville answered her, hesitating before going on. "We also had you fill out a psychological evaluation, the results of which I have here." He glanced down at the papers, feeling agitated. "I'd like to talk to you more about how you've been getting on, in the wake of your most recent incident."

"Okay," she agreed, although she dragged out the last syllable slightly. "What do you want to know?"

"Your evaluation indicates that you've been worrying excessively about having another attack?" He furrowed his brow, leaning back in his chair.

"Wouldn't you?" Hannah asked, looking surprised.

Neville smiled wryly, nodding at her answer. "Fair enough. I just need to know if this worry, or fear, is causing changes in your day to day behavior."

She bit her lip and watched him thoughtfully. "Why does that matter?"

"Well, if you're avoiding certain situations, for example, because you're worried it'll trigger another attack, then you're creating new learned behaviors or compulsions. It would affect our treatment plan in helping you manage your condition." Neville tapped his wand against the desk restlessly, thoughts darting away to the treatment plan for his parents. He would need to reassess their current status first. There was no telling what that potion was meant to do or if his parents drank enough of it to matter.

Consumed by his own worries, he didn't recognize how long the room had been silent until Hannah's hand reached across the desk and wrapped around his own, stilling his fidgeting movements. He met her gaze, so openly full of concern for him. "Are you ok?" She asked, squeezing his hand.

"I ah- I'm sorry, Hannah." Neville mentally berated himself. "This is so unprofessional. I'm focused on you, I promise."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She pressed him, but not uncomfortably. He stared at her small fingers, resting so delicately against his own oafish appendages. He was grateful for her support, although annoyed that he needed to be comforted by his own patient.

"Maybe another time," he replied, not wanting to turn her down outright. "For now, I owe you a more proper explanation of potential treatment options."

"Of course," she agreed, smiling at him and removing her hand to retreat back to her side of the desk.

More focused now, Neville took her through the various options, ensuring that she understood the pros and cons of each. He gave her several pamphlets for further reading, and instructed her to take the time to consider before finalizing her decision.

"One more thing," Neville said as he organized the papers in her file and ran through his mental checklist. "I wanted to make you aware that you do have the option to elect to see- or not see- certain healers as part of this process."

"Why would that matter?"

"Your healers will need to know fairly intimate details about your psyche," Neville explained absently as tapped the papers on the table to align them. "You might not want me, actually, given the personal nature of our relationship."

"And what is our relationship?" The question made him scatter the papers back on the desk and he whipped his head up to look at her, sputtering. Hannah, for her part, was shaking with silent laughter. "I'll consider what you said, Neville. Thank you for helping me today." She shot him a grin and left Neville sitting in the office, a bewildered look upon his face.

Overall, Neville reflected as he reorganized the documents, today had been a very weird day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I'm taking my time more with writing this fic and savoring it a bit. Makes the whole process more fun for me, so thank you all for your patience. :) This one is a bit shorter, but I'm so excited for you to read it! The only warning is PTSD & depression (pretty mild).

Hermione sat in the cold hallway of the ministry, anxiously checking her notes. She was dressed to impress from the french twist of her hair to her perfectly polished and practical dress flats. Today was a big day. It was THE day. She was waiting for permission to enter the meeting chamber of the Board of Trustees, a group that had sizable influence over many of the Ministry's public services (not the least of which being St Mungo's). They met quarterly, their sessions usually spanning a couple of days, and Hermione was scheduled to present her 30 day recommendation this morning.

She shuffled the documents in her slightly trembling hands, feeling the now familiar knot in her stomach stretch and twist. At this point in her career, she'd come to be on familiar terms with the majority of the board members and had given presentations to various levels of leadership, although the knowledge never stopped her gut from doing somersaults in the last half hour before go time.

She felt a new level of confidence in her content, however, since Ron had agreed to help. True to his word, he'd showed up to her office in the evenings, usually bearing some form of a takeaway dinner and overflowing with ideas for cost cutting measures. Some of them were usable, some weren't, but it was a far cry from his previous attitude of naysaying her every effort. In fact, Hermione had found his nearly constant presence over the past week downright enjoyable, which was not something she could often claim when it came to her professional relationships.

Hermione had become very good at compartmentalizing her life. When she was at work, she was focused and objective. Above all, her priority was to give the most informed and thoughtful recommendations that she could. She'd seen the mess left behind by the war, and despite working in finance, she wanted to do her small part to improve the wizarding world. If that came at the expense of close friendships with colleagues… well that wasn't what she was paid for, was it? She was paid to find the facts, do the math, and give her professional opinions.

Her personal life was a very different story, one in which she didn't feel the need to impose her thoughts onto her friends and family with the same amount of vigor. She loved weekends with her cousins at the beach, feeling the sand beneath her toes and drinking wine until the sun rose in brilliant shades of pink over the horizon. She laughed more easily, teased without fear, asked questions with less scrutiny, and let herself be cuddled and hugged. Maybe it would confuse some that her two selves seemed so very different, but to Hermione, they were a natural dichotomy. She loved her work, which was too important to take light heartedly, but when she was not surrounded by her work, she thought her heart felt very light indeed.

Ron, however, presented uncharted territory. He seemed to take a very different approach to his professional life. As far as Hermione could tell, he behaved the same way both in and out of the office. It was… both assaulting and refreshing to her senses. He grinned and teased, raised his voice when he felt passionate, touched her arm to get her attention, and asked her questions about her health and sleep patterns. When she'd found herself laughing during those late night prep sessions, she'd marveled at the feeling of letting down her guard. She doubted she would ever fully immerse her two halves, but as she was learning with Ron, maybe it was ok to let them overlap a little more.

It certainly didn't hinder their productivity. She was much more pleased with her recommendations today than she'd been the previous week.

They'd documented two courses of action: in the short term, she proposed that they impose new standard practices for procurement, inventory, and scheduling, allowing each ward leader the responsibility to manage their own profit and loss center that rolled up into the overall budget. Even Ron agreed that the hospital's supply chain was inefficient, and they really didn't have insight into the way the various departments were spending money. By breaking out that responsibility, Hermione had no doubt they would be able to identify areas that could be streamlined, such as taking advantage of bulk purchase pricing, reducing the amount of unnecessary inventory on hand, or simplifying duplicative work.

In the long term, she proposed more radical ideas. Ron had been able to help her find piles of evidence of repeat visitors, people who likely hadn't received the proper treatment in the first place, and long term residents who were, frankly, a money drain on the hospital. What if they swapped out the old programs for new ones? Programs such as the revolutionary one that Ron and Neville had been proposing for years. Programs that focused on finding the root cause of the issue and implementing creative and potentially ground breaking solutions. Maybe they could send all healers to muggle universities for a semester or two as part of their training. Maybe they could begin to charge for elective procedures, supplementing funding for the required ones. Maybe they could begin to patent some of the outstanding magical inventions that were already a byproduct of these practices, and sell the rights to other Ministries.

Hermione had purposely planned to end the presentation on a rather speculative note, hoping to infuse confidence that the sky was the limit in her long term vision. Perhaps it was Ron's enthusiastic nature, but she'd really begun to buy into his ideas.

Her leg jiggled nervously as she checked her watch, nearly jumping with the large door next to her creaked. "They'll see you now," a small, mousy woman told her, opening the door just enough to let Hermione slip though.

She made her way down the steps of the conference hall, smiling and nodding at the various trustees as she passed them. There were 12 people spread out around the oversized room, some sitting up sharply and some lounging lazily, but all looked tired as this was the second day of their council. Members were elected by the Minister himself and sat on the Board until a new Minister took power. The head of this Board was a staunch woman named Mallory Crowder, and it was her eyes that Hermione sought out as she ascended the podium at the front of the room.

Mallory was tall and firmly built, her appearance strong despite the wrinkles on her face that revealed her age. Her high bones were evident in the hollows of her cheeks and sat protruding sharply below eyes that were such a dark shade of brown, they nearly looked black. Her thin grey hair hung around her ears in a perfect coif, and she perched in her seat with a straight backed posture, emanating severity. Mallory was tough, Hermione knew it, but she'd thus far managed to only impress the seasoned woman, a sentiment Hermione hoped carried on after today.

She smiled and greeted the Board members before launching into her recommendations. As she spoke, she saw various levels of reception around the room. Amos Diggory wiggled excitedly and smiled at her whenever she made eye contact with him, inciting her to believe that he was fully aligned with her plan. Agrona Plunkin seemed to feel similarly, though Kenelm Armstrong looked as though he might be asleep. Langston Sherman studied his notes moodily, though Hermione could not tell if that was a product of her content or a previous discussion. As she came to a finish, she turned her full attention back to Mallory.

The silence was painful, but Hermione firmly shut her mouth and waited for her superior to react. The woman took her time in scratching out a series of notes with her quill, not appearing rushed or flustered as the room at large watched her actions. Finally, she looked up at Hermione and gave her the tiniest of smiles.

"My thoughts are twofold," she began, dark eyes scanning the room for her fellow Board members. Her nasally voice was low and powerful. "I fully agree with your short term plan, and I am prepared to allow you to execute it under the conditions that you report back in 90 days, showing any progress made or blocked. Does the Board have any other questions or objections to this action?"

Hermione felt relief course through her veins, and gladly answered the handful of questions that various Board members peppered her with, until Mallory nodded cooly and called for a vote, which passed unanimously.

"As far as your long term plan…" Mallory's voice hung in the large space ominously, and Hermione's gut knotted again just as quickly as she'd felt the previous relief. "I admit that I find myself doubtful of its merit. I appreciate your… _optimism_." For some reason, the way she said the word made Hermione feel ashamed. "But I see no evidence to support any of your theoretical claims."

At the sudden confrontation, Hermione could feel herself sweating, her palms clammy, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. "I understand, Ms. Crowder, and believe me, I felt a similar way only a month ago. Despite my personal convictions, it's objectively difficult to show improvement on these types of things when there's never been an effort to measure them before. Allow me to approach this more scientifically in the next 90 days, and report to you at the same time as the other reporting you've asked for."

"Seems reasonable," Amos spoke up, turning his beaming gaze to Mallory. "No harm in letting her try."

"Agreed," Langston called, surprising Hermione. "We're supposed to be supportive of St Mungo's research and advancement, not stalling its progress."

"This isn't progress," a woman Hermione didn't know hissed. "How can the muggle way of doing anything be an advancement? Magic is vastly superior."

"Aye, that would be your opinion, wouldn't it Neris?" Amos spat, uncharacteristically hostile. "Wouldn't be any muggles around if you were given your way."

"Silence, please." Mallory turned her gaze over the tiny uproar of the room, and quiet fell again. "Very well. Ms. Granger, I'll allow you to continue to build your business case for this course of action, but be warned: for the first time in St Mungo's history, we are forced to focus our concern not on the patients, but on the bottom line. You will need to work very hard to convince me that whatever measures you propose will, in fact, improve the hospital's budget. I shall be very critical."

"That is more than fair," Hermione agreed readily.

"Very well." The Head of the Board peered down at Hermione appraisingly, before clicking her tongue. "You're dismissed."

Hermione tried to hold her head high as she exited the conference room, waiting until the large heavy doors swung shut behind her before she collapsed in a chair. She was rather shaky as adrenaline pumped through her veins, and felt a sudden chill over her clammy body in the still air of the hallway.

She bit her lip and stared up at the ceiling, lounged so deeply that anyone walking by might think she'd hurt her back, but she didn't care. Her mind ran rapidly through the events of the meeting, trying to capture and store information that she didn't process immediately.

That wasn't perfect, she decided, but it was something. They had a lot of work to do.

* * *

"Mum," Neville said, attempting to keep his voice calm and pleasant despite the frustration building in his chest. Alice sat blankly in her bed, staring out the window. She didn't react to anything Neville did, almost as though she couldn't hear him.

But she could. He'd had the nurses test her hearing, just in case.

He reached out to her, but the second his skin touched hers, she jerked her hand back with a low grunt, then resumed her staring out the window.

"It's hopeless," Neville breathed, turning in his chair to eye Ron. He felt stretched out, thin. "They've definitely regressed."

Ron, whose attempts with Frank had been garnering similar reactions, glanced back at his friend. "Don't stress, Neville. We can fix this." His voice was firm, despite the uncertainty Neville was sure he saw in his eyes.

Yesterday, Summer had glumly informed Neville of her analysis of the potion that had been administered unwillingly to his parents, and her prognosis had not been positive. She'd said it was a concoction with which she was entirely unfamiliar, but would, hypothetically, affect the way signals were interpreted within the neocortex of the brain. The doses were potentially harmless on a person of average health, but… when given to a person with severe, pre-existing brain damage…

Summer had winced a bit at this point. "It's like whoever gave them this potion knew exactly what work you'd been doing, Neville," she'd muttered as they stood in the lunch line of the cafeteria, their conversation drowned out by the excess noise of the room.

"What do you mean?" He'd asked out of the side of his mouth.

She'd pretended to lean over his tray to grab some jello. "The ingredients and quantities are exactly what I would have chosen to undo your progress. It's so scientific, it's a bit alarming, and makes it hard to believe it's a coincidence."

Neville had felt his pulse quicken, but thanked her quietly for the information and tried to keep his face calm as he paid for his lunch and left.

"We could start them on your treatment plan again," Ron mused aloud, shaking Neville from his reverie. "But who's to say if the long term effects of this mystery potion will interfere."

"I've been thinking of that," Neville admitted, toying with a frayed thread on his mother's bedsheet. "I have the list of most likely ingredients as reverse potioneered by Summer, and some of them don't play nicely with the Siberian Sage I've been waiting to try."

Ron made a thoughtful noise as he swiveled around in the stool, staring out the window himself. "We could just wait, I suppose, and see if the substance works its way out of their bodies."

Neville sighed. "But what if it causes more long term damage?"

Ron scratched at his beard. "You're suggesting a cleanse?"

"I think so." Neville's voice was small, so small, but he didn't falter.

"I don't need to point out that it could regress some of the good you've done for them too."

Neville watched as mum sat blandly in her bed, doing barely more than breathing. This was no existence. He gritted his teeth. "I know, but it's almost worse than before, Ron. At least they knew who I was, exhibited some emotion. This… being so detached, it's… it's not a result of their brain trauma. It's magically induced. I want to get any remnants of this potion out of their systems before it gets worse."

"For what it's worth," Ron told him gravely. "I agree with you."

Neville nodded. "Let's do it then."

Ron stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Are you sure? Want to sleep on it?"

"No." Neville extracted himself from his stool and set his jaw in determination. "I've been thinking about this for days; it's time."

Ron shot him a sympathetic look, but busied himself with prepping the patients. He convinced both Frank and Alice to lie down on their backs while Neville retrieved the IV poles. Another of their own inventions, Neville inserted the needle for both his parents and started them on potion drips. The potion was a very simple solution, meant to flush the system of any other remnants of temporary magic. Potions weren't commonly injected directly into the bloodstream, but Ron and Neville had become so infatuated with the idea that they'd spent a considerable amount of Summer's time on the project.

The day they'd perfected it had been a wonderful day, the celebration not ending until the small hours of the following morning. Summer had been so excited about the success that she often spent her free time assessing the hospital's most commonly administered potions to see if they could be adapted for application via IV. Despite his terrible situation, Neville felt a small smile play on the corners of his mouth. This was a brilliant utilization of magical medicine, and it would help his parents. It had to.

As if reading his mind, Ron clapped a hand on Neville's shoulder. "They'll be alright, mate."

"I know," Neville answered, saying it with more confidence than he actually felt.

* * *

"You ready for this?" Ron asked Harry as they ascended the stairs up to the fourth floor.

"As I'll ever be," Harry responded.

Ron, after years of friendship and training in being observant, knew that Harry was more nervous than he was letting on, but he didn't press the subject. "Thanks for being here again. It's been awhile since I've called in a favor like this."

Harry flapped his hand dismissively, emerald eyes taking on the hard blaze they did when he was feeling dogged. Good, Ron thought, he would need to be in top form to get through this conversation. He did his best to wave away the people who noticed Harry's presence, trying to allow his friend to maintain his mental focus.

They stopped outside the curtains of bed fourteen, Ron waiting for the signal. Harry took several deep breaths, then nodded his head jerkily to Ron. Ron drew the curtain back and stepped through first.

"Hi Dennis. I've brought someone to see you." When Ron glanced back at Harry again, he was relieved to see that Harry had coerced his features into a friendly smile.

"Hullo Dennis," Harry offered warmly, walking confidently over to the bedside and settling onto a stool.

Dennis' face fell into a state of shock, amplified by the long hair and beard that he'd refused to let Ron cut. He gaped at Harry, mouth opening and closing feebly. Harry waited for a while, but Dennis never managed to speak.

"I haven't told him any specifics," Ron explained to Dennis as he sat on his other side. "I do respect your privacy. I just told him that you were here, and he wanted to visit you."

It was true, although Ron never would have asked Harry to visit unless it was for a very specific reason, a fact that Harry knew but Ron didn't feel the need to inform Dennis. Ron had asked Harry occasionally to talk to other veterans of the war over the past few years, knowing that his friend had the ability to speak to particular mental illness better than anyone.

"I did," Harry repeated earnestly. "I haven't heard from you since the war. I never got the chance to tell you, but I'm so sorry about Colin. He was a Gryffindor through and through."

Dennis turned a shade of pink and coughed in an exaggerated way while he rubbed at his eyes. "Thanks, er, Harry." He sounded uncomfortable saying the name, his voice somehow even higher than usual.

"Where have you been?" Harry asked the question lightly, as though asking about the weather, but the entirety of the examination room seemed to darken at the look on Dennis' thin face.

"Around," he finally answered. "Here and there. Just staying alive, you know."

Harry nodded, and Ron struggled to bite his tongue, knowing this was a conversation he should not insert himself into.

"You know, I disappeared for awhile after the war too," Harry said, and Dennis' head whipped around to stare at him.

"What?"

"It's true," Harry said. "Physically for a bit. I went traveling on my own, although it wasn't as long as I'd have liked. Before I knew it, I felt obligated to come back here. But mentally... Emotionally... It was… a very dark place for me, inside my mind. It didn't matter what people said, or did, or how much I tried to force myself to appear _normal._ " Harry threw up air quotes around the word. "I couldn't find joy in anything. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't snap out of it, even when the rest of the world seemed to move on without me."

"But not now." It was a statement more than a question, Dennis hanging on Harry's every word.

"Sometimes still now," Harry admitted. "We lived through so much, Dennis. It's not something you can quickly heal, even with magic." The smaller man's face crumpled, and Harry tentatively reached for his hand, gripping it consolingly. "I manage it better now though. I'm happily married. I have a rewarding job, a stable place to live. There are good days and bad days, but I can always find joy when I need to."

"How?" Dennis looked as though he'd been thrown a lifeline, his face seeming ten years younger as he stared at his old idol.

"Ron." Harry shot a grin at him, and Ron rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "And Neville. They were taking muggle classes on mental disorders, and we had really candid conversations about depression. They encouraged me to find a therapist, and worked tirelessly in healer training to develop a medicine for me."

"It's a tablet, similar in theory to muggle antidepressants," Ron explained. "Although we were able to use magic to significantly reduce and improve the side effects."

"You take medication," Dennis asked incredulously, and Harry laughed.

"Yes, I do." He shook his head, bemused. "Don't buy into the stigma, Dennis. My brain is sick, and the tablets help make it better. When your body is sick you use medicine, why not for your brain?"

Dennis seemed to mull this over as Harry stood and pulled out a card from an inner pocket in his jacket. "It was great to see you today, Dennis. I hope you'll send me an owl. I work at the Ministry now, so I'm in London pretty often."

"Really, I can write to you?" Dennis looked positively shocked.

"Of course," Harry smiled warmly. "Here is the business card for the therapist I used to see. She's a muggle, but you're muggle born so you know the drill." Dennis nodded as Harry laid the card on his bedside table. "I gotta run, but we'll talk again soon, ok Dennis?"

"Right, er, yeah, bye Harry." He waved to Dennis and Ron, then cast a disillusionment charm over himself and exited the examination area. Ron knew that Harry felt emotionally drained after conversations like this one, and although he was willing to help as much as he could, he probably wanted to sneak out of St Mungo's without drawing more attention to himself.

"How do you feel?" Ron asked his patient, still sitting on the stool at the side of the bed. Dennis just shook his head, struck mute. Ron grinned. This was the most emotion he'd gotten out of the man since he'd checked in the previous week, and he was pleased to see it. "I'd like to have you stay a few more days, if that's alright? Maybe we can discuss some treatment options?"

Ron held his breath as Dennis' face immediately snapped back under a menacing mask, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. He drew a few ragged breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists on his knees in front of him. Finally, to Ron's great surprise, he jerked his head once. "Alright, I'll listen. But I'm not making any promises."

"Brilliant," Ron agreed, standing up and grabbing the file from the foot of the bed to make some updates in the charts. "Let's talk tomorrow then." Dennis fell silent, but Ron, still encouraged by what he saw as progress, gave him a smile as he left.

* * *

"Ron," Hermione exclaimed gleefully as he entered her office. She hopped up from behind her desk and nearly skipped over to him, grasping his forearms eagerly. "The Board approved our proposal!"

"Really?" His voice hitched with excitement as she nodded fervently.

She felt her feet leave the ground as he swept her up in a bone crushing hug, spinning them both in circles as she laughed before setting her down. Ron stayed close to her, so close she could admire the gradient of his blue eyes as they faded to grey near his pupils.

"Thank you again for helping me," she told him softly, absently brushing his red hair from his forehead. "Honestly, your insight was a game changer."

His expression melted as he whispered hoarsely. "Course, Mione." Then Ron's eyes lit up fully again as he beamed. "I can't believe we've done it."

"Naturally, we will have to report on progress next quarter, both for our short term and long term initiatives," she babbled, swatting at his arm when he smirked at her. "But we talked about that, remember? I thought that was a likely outco-"

Her rambling was cut off as Ron captured her lips in his own. The kiss was gentle, inviting. He pulled back after a couple seconds, and Hermione stared at him in shock. Her brain was empty, an unfamiliar sensation, and all she could see or think or feel was Ron. He began to look uncertain, but she threw her arms around his neck and pulled his lips back to hers.

His tongue flicked against her lips, and she parted them willingly, enjoying the sensation of the deepening kiss. He growled and spun them around so her back was against the wall, slipping his leg between her own. His arms were on either side of her, and she ran her hands over his back greedily. His lips moved to the tender part of her ear, the feeling of his warm breath and teeth nipping at her driving her mad. She squirmed to be closer to him, pressing her chest flush with his body as she moaned. His knee, pressed against the wall between her legs, lifted up further so she was nearly sitting on it, the pressure against her making her core tighten achingly. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears as he moved back to her lips, and she began to rock her hips against his leg, wondering if she could get off on something as simple as this.

This. This was everything. This was insanity. This… this wasn't that simple, was it? He was her employee. The thought breached her mind, uninvited and unwelcome.

She broke away from him, gasping for air as she whispered, "stop."

He took a step back from her, and she had to physically restrain herself from jumping on him again. His eyes were a darker shade then she'd ever seen them, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. She wanted more.

"Right," he said, panting a bit himself. "Er, sorry."

"No, don't be sorry," she responded quickly. "We were… it was... just caught up in the moment."

"Yeah." Ron took a few more steps back, the space allowing them both to breath. "You know, big day. Big win."

"Right," she nodded her head. "Won't happen again." She caught his eye, aware of his hesitation. "Right? Seeing as I'm your boss, technically." Hearing the words aloud sobered her.

"Of course," he answered. Did Ron actually look disappointed, or did she just wish that he did? "I'll, ah, see myself out, then?"

"We can… we can reconvene tomorrow." Hermione walked back to her desk, avoiding his gaze. "I'd still love to have your help, if I can?"

"Always." His voice sounded lower and sent a shiver down her spine, and she stood for a second at her chair before turning around.

"See you tomorrow?" Even in her own ears, the words were falsely bright.

"Tomorrow," Ron agreed, flashing her a semblance of a smile as he left.

Hermione was alone, confronting a realization that she'd been avoiding over the past couple of weeks. She was extremely attracted to Ron Weasley, and maybe even had feelings for him. She breathed out deeply. Thiiiiiis was going to be a problem.


End file.
